Victory or Sovngarde
by Arcolin
Summary: Set sometime before Skyrim's Civil War, an outlander finds himself... well... dead. A story about the afterlife and 'living' there, the nature of heroism and heaven, and those pesky gods' wills. I've indulged in deliberate heresies against the Queen's English to try to differentiate between characters from different eras, and tried to curb my penchant for exposition.
1. Author's Notes

As I've been writing this some points have come to mind which may (or may not) be of interest to the reader.

First and most important, comments and constructive criticism are welcome, as long as they're presented civilly. I actually _want_ them.

Story Creation

There are parts of the story and some characters I personally think are flawed and need work. On the other hand, I don't feel required to 'like' everything that goes into my work, or that things necessarily need to be 'complete'. Sometimes it's good to have a little dissonance, some unexplained mysteries, some loose ends. It makes things seem more organic.

By way of example, I've been stumbling over an as-yet-un-introduced character that I felt was something of a stereotype and challenges my real life beliefs. It'd be much easier to dump the character and storyline and move on. However, I decided to keep the character, flesh out the story, give the character some depth and in the process explore the motivations actions of a person I'd… probably not get along with in real life.

On reflection, my proposed timing for the story has to be refined. This tale probably occurs just before the Skyrim Civil War, in which case Scalathrax was likely the very first dragon awakened by Alduin. If it occurred far in the past, before the Blades wiped the Dragons out, the culture and historical references would probably have to shift.

Given a pre-Civil War setting someone would have remarked on the return of the Dragons. At some point I'll have to rework things to put that in. Of course, Alduin will have to make his presence known in Sovngarde at some point…

I kind of like the 'pre Civil War setting' because it'll force me to deal with how the afterlife views and handles the Civil War. After all, Mundus reflects Aeterius and Aetherius reflects Mundus.

Aelfir Lightspear will get considerable fleshing out. She's obviously the Nord point of view character for the tale, just as Gaius Marcus is the Cyrodiliic one.

Yes, I imagine some romantic character arcs developing at some point. They're a necessary and usually positive aspect of life and afterlife. An interesting question… can the spirits of the dead procreate? (Already answered in an unpublished chapter...)

I'm deliberately intending to avert or invert some standard literature tropes in the course of this tale to keep things interesting. Like many authors, some current real-world cringe parallels will raise their ugly heads, though hopefully in an entertaining and subtle way. This is partly because there are considerable parallels between the Time of the Dragonborn and 21st Century Earth, but mostly because I'm dealing with overarching questions of morality, loyalty, ethics, faith and theology. Hopefully no one will be offended by my efforts. More importantly, I hope it causes readers to think... myself included. We'll see how successful I am.

I've got probably twenty more chapters written but unpublished at this point.

Rome vis-a-vis the Elder Scrolls Empire

My vision of the Empire is a more Roman Empire-esque than that of Skyrim's creators. This is partly because I am fascinated by the historical Romans and partly because I've always felt the Elder Scrolls Empire was a bit bland, a trifle too 'stock-medieval-RPG'.

I've already had Imperial soldiery lock shields and throw javelins at Scalathrax, very much like historical Romans 'forming testudo' and throwing pilia (Roman javelins). To my knowledge javelins are not used by Skyrim's Empire and Imperial troops don't use the testudo. This could be jarring for Elder Scrolls purists. If it detracts from your enjoyment of the story I'm truly sorry.

In yet to be published chapters I use Roman names for the main character's sword ('gladius') and his dagger ('pugio'), though not consistently. I also envision visits to places reminiscent of classical Roman villas and cities where the characters dine on grapes and olives, use olive oil in place of butter, and drink wine while reclining on dinner couches. I'm looking forward to the Nord character's reactions to Roman (Cyrodiliic) customs and traditions, much in the same way that Gaius Marcus has had to struggle with ending up in Sovngarde (Valhalla).

Yet I've avoided (so far) calling Gaius Marcus' shield a scutum. The iconic octagonal Imperial shield is nothing like the historical Roman curved, rectangular body-shield. I've also avoided calling Imperial javelins 'pilia', which was a very specific – and clever – Roman javelin design.

That's enough boring stuff for now. Enjoy!

\- Arcolin


	2. Victory or Sovngarde

It wasn't so bad… once the pain faded.

I expected the harsh iron scent of blood and acrid stink of fear - I was fairly certain I'd soiled myself during the fight. Or the ashy stench of burnt hair and flesh and scorched leather and steel.

Instead, I was lying face-down in fragrant turf. The rich scent of loam and grass mingled with sweet lavender and tundra cotton.

I lay there, marveling at the quiet. There was no roaring, no flap of leathery wings, no snapping of jaws or screaming villagers. No crackle of dragonfire consuming the very stone underfoot.

Instead, there was the rustle of a breeze rustling the grass. A flutter of feathered wings alighting nearby was followed by the trill of a lark. The buzz of a bee sang nearby, pausing as it lit on a lavender stalk to gather nectar ere it buzzed to the next blossom.

I rose to my knees, opening my eyes. To my surprise it was full night. The stars wheeled overhead, teased by the multicolored veil of the dancing aurora. The two glimmering moons shone full upon the earth; I could make out every detail of their wizened faces.

I held up my hands. They should have been blackened by fire, drenched in blood and gore, armor and flesh shredded by tooth and claw. To my lessening surprise, bracer and gauntlet were intact, and my flesh whole.

My helm lay tumbled on the turf. I knelt and lifted it in both hands. The metal crest-ridge and cheek plates hand been raked by my foe's claws early in the fight, but they had saved my life. Yet they were, fully intact. I was no longer surprised. I slipped it on, the interior padding molded to my head, the cheek plates chill against my face as it settled into place.

My shield, lost early in the fight, lay close at hand. I ran my fingers over the steel rim of the elongated hexagon, over the stylized dragon that served as a boss. I reflected on the irony as I slid my forearm through the strap and grasped the grip, feeling its familiar weight and heft.

My sword rode scabbarded at my hip. I eased the blade halfway from the sheath. The steel blade gleamed in the light of the twin moons and the aurora. Satisfied that it was clean and serviceable, I slid it home with a solid snick.

Of my spear there was no sign. I had hurled it at my foe in the first moment of battle, to get the thing's attention. Though I thought it struck home, it played no further part in the battle that followed.

To be honest, I never expected to last as long as I did against the drake. I was just trying to give the townsfolk a chance to flee or hide. Whether I was momentarily touched by the Divines or through some Daedric whim I was able to hurt the old worm with a couple of strokes, even after it knocked my helm asunder and batted my shield away. I managed to clamber onto a burning home and vault onto the thing's back as it made a low pass… not so much to get at some soft spot (it really didn't have any) as to get to the one place it couldn't get at me with tooth or claw or fire. The longer it was focused on me, the better chance the villagers had to survive.

Then there was that stab at the end. The lizard flew into a fury when it felt me land, flexing and whirling as it tried to reach me. It tried to scrape me off on a burning house, then some trees, and finally a cliff like a bear scratching an itch. Credit where it's due, good Imperial steel kept body and soul together.

But in the course of all the thrashing and scraping the worm knocked one of his own scales loose. I saw naked flesh right at the joint between its neck and shoulder, so I jammed my sword in up to the hilt. I have to admit, I twisted the blade just for spite.

Well, I must have hit something vital. Its blood burned like boiling oil as it gushed over my sword arm and splashed in my face. The lizard tumbled, lashing and coiling like a beheaded snake; I let go of my sword and held on with both hands in a death-grip. Being on the drake's back I took quite a beating. Then my head – without helmet - hit something. Next thing I knew I was catapulting through the air… and I woke up here.

But where was here? I had to be dead. Nobody could survive what I'd been though. But I always expected the hereafter would look like some ideal version of home. I expected Cyrodill, maybe even Chorrol where I was born and raised. But this looked like Skyrim, with its aurora and tundra cotton.

Skyrim. Where I died.

I slid my helm back on my skull and peered around me. In the distance was a low hill studded with standing stones. Beyond it, a gleaming whalebone bridge spanned a chasm leading to a great mead-hall of ancient stone.

Sovngarde. By the Divines, was I going to be stuck with mead-swilling Nords for eternity, listening to dismal dirges and sagas of the frozen wastes? Was I condemned to never again taste fragrant wine or delicate brandy, or hear the gentle strains of a Colovian harp, or bask in a warm summer breeze? Was it to be rawboned, horse faced, weather bitten shield-maidens instead of gentle ladies of soft skin, with ribbons in their hair and swathed in rustling silks?

I shrugged. One man's paradise was another man's hell.

With nothing better to do, I squared my shoulders and trudged toward the whalebone bridge.


	3. Encounter With a Shield Maiden

Encounter With a Shield Maiden.

As bridge and dolmen crowned hillock drew closer I had time to observe the moon-kissed landscape. The rolling valley gave way on both flanks to craggy stone hills. Elk browsed the margins, giving throat to high-pitched bugling punctuated by the occasional snorting chortle. Nighthawks wheeled overhead, swooping to the turf to snatch some small prey. A steady breeze ruffled the grasses and flowers. I caught the sound of chanting wafting from the mead-hall.

Pretty enough in its way, but it was not home.

As I approached the nearest of the standing stones I stopped. A deeper shadow loomed in the lee of the dolmen. I shifted my shield to interpose as my hand stole to my sword-hilt.

"Who goes…?" I called.

"A proper Nord," the shadow answered. "Which you are not, southland dog." The speaker's pitch distinctly high.

"Horse-faced shield maiden," I muttered. Raising my voice I called back "What do you want?"

"You've no place among Nord heroes," the woman answered, stepping from the shadows. She was clad in Norse mail, shield at the ready, spear levelled. "Turn tail and leave." She gestured with her spear. "Go back to… wherever your kind go when they die."

Now, I'd no special love for the Nords. They were citizens like any other, as much as Argonians or Khajit or Orsimer or Dunmer or Bretons. Or even folk from Imperial Cyrodiil for that matter. But this arrogant spear-wielding wench… hot blood flushed all sense out of my skull.

"I certainly didn't choose to come to this dismal corner of Aetherius" I retorted. "Besides, unless you're… uh…" I groped in my mind for what little Norse lore I knew… "Tsun. Unless you're Tsun it's not your place to challenge me."

The shield-wench charged. I drew blade and braced for the shock, counting on my (presumably) greater mass and superior quality steel to absorb and deflect the impact.

At the last moment she twisted aside, bypassing my shield and striking at my exposed lower legs. I turned and dropped my shield, barely catching the spear point before it sank into my calf. I thrust overarm with my blade, but the momentum of her charge carried her well past my reach.

I backed away from her, shield at the ready, sword tip resting atop the rim and following her ridged helm as she maneuvered. I couldn't see her eyes in the dusky night, but eyes could deceive. It was her hips that I followed. Only the most skilled fighters could make their center of gravity lie to their foes.

I continued to keep my distance, maneuvering toward the nearest dolmen. The shield maid clearly wanted to use her lighter armor, maneuverability and the spear's greater reach to her advantage. The massive stone would make it harder for her to flank me, to strike from an unexpected angle.

"Backing away, Imperial?" I could hear the sneer in her voice. "Just turn and walk and you won't have to fight."

"Same could be said of you, girl," I snarled. "I didn't seek this fight like some hotblood fledgling. You did."

Her breath hissed between clenched teeth. Something I said struck home. The shield maiden circled right, shifting her spear from underarm to an overarm grip.

I doubled my backward pace, turning to keep my line of retreat toward the standing stone, angling my shield against a possible spear-cast.

She hefted her spear, and my eyes narrowed. She kept a firm grip on the haft rather than loosening her fingers for a throw. A feint, intended to make me raise my shield and blind myself.

At that moment she sprang forward, her bright spear spinning in one hand like a blade, striking low. I twisted aside, my shield rim making contact with the flat of the spear tip, deflecting it out and upward. Immediately I checked my impetus and rotated my shield to keep it between us. I planted my back foot and drove a thrust at her torso as she passed. My blade glanced off mail, and I thought I heard some links snap.

She turned lightly as she passed and returned my thrust with one of her own. I caught the blow full on my shield, my arm shivering at the impact as the tip sank into leather and wood. She released her spear, and I heard the rasp of drawn steel.

By the Divines she was strong. To pull off such a powerful attack while retreating…!

Now I had an eight foot length of ash and iron projecting from my shield, making it heavy, awkward and useless. Most men would drop their shield, putting them at a disadvantage. But the shield maiden's trajectory was taking her away from me, so…

I grounded my shield-rim and hacked downward with my sword. The spear-haft shattered inches behind the metal head. I hefted the dragon-boss once more – just in time to meet her charge.

Her blade beat dully against leather, wood and iron. I countered with a cut that clanged off the rim of her round shield as she danced back out of my reach.

We circled, feinting, looking for openings. She kept her shield low, but when I went for her shoulder she shifted her stance, deflected my attack with her sword and countered with a shield-rim bash that would have crushed my foot if I hadn't twisted aside.

I retreated toward the nearest dolmen. At her next attack I used a shield bash to drive her into the granite mass. She spun along the face of the stone, but my killing cut clashed sparks as she evaded the blow. Instantly she sprang to counterattack my extended sword-arm, but I folded in my elbow, spun and dropped to one knee, barely catching her descending blade on the boss of my shield.

And so it went. Cut and parry, block and thrust, attack and counterattack. Blades clashing, glancing off armor, thudding against shields. Finally both of us retreated several steps to catch our breath.

"Had enough, Imperial?"

"You can end this any time," I retorted. My arms tingled numbly form the shock of battle, my knees were getting wobbly, and my lungs were on fire. But I wasn't going to give her the satisfaction of seeing me back down.

Besides, I reasoned, I was already dead. No idea what would happen if you 'died' in Aetherius, but I was guessing you'd just… be dead for a while… and come back. Or something like that?


	4. Deadlock and Challenge

My panting subsided. I hefted my blade and eyed the armored woman narrowly.

"So… you willing to walk away from this, or do you insist on continuing?"

She snorted under her helmet. "Walk away? Not until you are stretched on the ground, crying for mercy."

"This is pointless," I sighed. "But... as you wish."

"Hold!" A voice rolling like thunder made me leap backward, startled. The shield maiden's helm jerked as her head swiveled, seeking the speaker. I risked a quick glance right and left myself. Seeing no one, the sword-maid leveled burning eyes on me and began to advance.

I flexed my fingers on my sword grip and squared my stance, raising my shield. We closed, cautiously this time, each watching for an opening.

"I said, hold!"

A figure, hitherto concealed by shadow, strode into view at the crest of the dolmen-hill. He was a giant of a man, bare-chested and thick-thewed. His forearms were encased in massive bracers, while great metal plates guarded the pillars of his legs. His long hair and short beard hung loose and unbraided, and a great battle-axe was slung over one shoulder.

"Tsun!" the Shield-maiden hissed. She saluted the newcomer with her blade and backed up a step, bowing.

"Tsun?" I echoed. "Aren't you… supposed to be guarding the bridge or something?"

"I am." Tsun's voice was a deep, resonant bass. "But apparently someone decided they want my job." He indicated the shield maiden with his massive axe.

"I… would not think to challenge Shor's Shield, Bridgekeeper." The armored woman dropped her shield and thrust her sword into the loam, as if to prove the truth of her words.

"That is well, Aelfir, though I always welcome a friendly rematch. it's been long since I watched others battle. Your clash made this guardian's blood race." Then he turned his gaze on me.

"And who is the newcomer? The little Legionnaire who matched blades with Aelfir Lightspear in the steel-dance?"

He strode down the hillock to loom over me. I sheathed my sword and looked up.

"I am… no one of consequence."

Tsun's laugh boomed. My ears throbbed.

"Oho! No one of consequence? If that were true, little man, your soul would not have made its way to this place!" Tsun clapped me on the shoulder. I staggered under the impact.

"Come now! Walk with me, little Legionnaire. Share your name. Or should I simply call you 'Inconsequentius'?

"Gaius Marcus Tribonius," I answered. "Legionnaire of the Twelfth Cohort of the Ninth Legion."

Tsun grinned, then turned on his heel and strode up the hillock. "Well, Gaius Marcus Tribonius, Legionnaire of the Twelfth Cohort of the Ninth Legion, answer me this. Why have you come?"

I shook my head. "I really don't know," I answered. "I did my duty. I fought and died. I did not expect to come here, of all places." I gestured around me with both sword-hand and shield.

"Yet you are here," Tsun rumbled. "Shor would know the reasons better than I, or perhaps Ysgramor. If you enter the Great Hall you might ask them."

We fell silent as we crested the hill and began to descend toward the pale span. Out of the corner of my eye I caught sight of Aelfir Lightspear trailing after, blade clenched in her fist.

We reached the whalebone bridge. I glanced at the span, divided into two lanes by upright blades of gleaming vertebrae. The ribs formed its supports, arching whalebone thrust into the earth. Tsun turned to me, unlimbering his battle-axe.

"What brings you, wayfarer grim, to wander here in Sovngarde, souls-end, Shor's gift to honored dead?"

I flexed my fingers. I almost walked away, thinking of Cyrodiil's rose gardens and vineyards… Thinking of my family, past and present, gathered in… maybe Zenithar's realm? Then I thought of an arrogant shield-maiden goading me to turn tail like a craven. A stubborn fire flared. My chin jutted.

"I fought to save citizens of the Empire. I pitted naked steel against dragonfire, fang and claw. Without talisman or spell I faced the beast. By will of the Divines or plain stupid luck I brought him down, though I fell with him."

I was really fired up, and the words came easily. "I fought Aelfir Lightspear, who sought to test my worthiness, in your sight. You allowed our battle for your amusement, making Aelfir your surrogate by right. As far as I'm concerned I've already earned passage." I drew my blade and pointed it at Shor's Shield-Thane. "Aye, I've earned my place in the mead-hall. By the Nine, neither you nor any other will deny me crossing, even if I show Sovngarde my heels as soon as I reach the other side!"

Tsun's eyes blazed, and I fancied that the giant warrior took half a step back. But he gripped his axe with eager hands and smiled.

"Warrior." He nodded. "Poet." He nodded again.

"I might have let you pass, Little Legionnaire, precisely because your arms were already tested and you were not found wanting. But your accusations, however true, wound me. I'm minded to try my steel on you to redeem my own honor."

I slid my helm into place. "You called it a dance? Then let's dance," I growled.


	5. Clash on the Bridge

We came together in a rush of steel, my speed against his power. In the first pass my shield was shivered to flinders by his overhand blow. My blade raked a bloody gash across his exposed chest. As I spun aside, shaking the ruins of my shield from my arm, I smacked into the whalebone vertebrae blades that divided the bridge. As I staggered Tsun's backhand cut dashed against my helmet, sending sparks through my skull and blood into my eyes. I spat out several teeth. Half blinded I lunged and was rewarded by a grunt as my sword-tip plowed into flesh. Immediately I bobbed and weaved to my right, but his axe clashed against my left shoulder plate. The steel plate tore free, spinning into the abyss.

I blinked blood from my eyes. Tsun was straining to regain control of his heavy axe after that last glancing blow, blood coursing from his own wounds. Even as my left hand closed on my broad-bladed dagger, tearing it from the sheath in an overhand grip, I launched into the bridge-guardian. I couldn't afford to let him recover. Tsun took a step back on the right lane of the whalebone bridge. Off balance and backpedalling though he was, the heavy axe parried my sword. Steel clashed against steel, and my sword arm went numb. I barely managed to keep a grip on my gladius. But even as my arm was flung aside by the force of the blow, I dropped to one knee and drove the point of my dagger through his foot with all my strength, piercing flesh and the sole of his boot to embed itself in the deck of the bridge.

I sprang back as Tsun howled and strove to tear his foot free. The dagger was driven too deep; lunge as he might the guardian could neither advance nor retreat. Blood streamed down his torso and flowed from his pinned foot.

You should have seen the other guy.

I wiped the blood from my eyes with my shaking left hand, but fresh runnels of blood immediately stung my eyes. I could feel my skull swelling from where his axe had shorn my helm away. My numb sword-hand was locked clawlike around my sword grip. With an effort I flexed my fingers, examined the gory blade, and spat a mouthful of blood before addressing my foe.

"Is honor satisfied? You are blooded, I'm ruddy well mangled, and you can't get to me courtesy of that Cyrodiilic pigsticker betwixt your toes. We both know I couldn't stand another encounter, but you'd have to lame yourself to get free."

The breath whistled through Tsun's teeth; his transfixed foot had to be pure agony, but the canny giant was watching, waiting for me to make a mistake.

I took a step forward, stopping just outside what I judged to be axe-reach. His eyes narrowed, thews tense, but I didn't give him an inch more.

I managed to lift my blade in salute. I spat blood again.

"Well? What say you?"

To my surprise, the giant relaxed. He threw back his head and laughed.

"Well played, Little Legionnaire. I concede. Tis a standoff in sooth! Shor's bones, t'was a brutal fight - and short!" Clutching his battle-axe in his left hand he reached down, muscles tensing as he wrenched my dagger from his foot. Blood burbled from the wound as Tsun limped a step toward me and flipped the dagger in his massive paw, holding it out hilt first. I sheathed my sword and accepted the proffered weapon.

"But tell me, Gaius Marcus Tribonius, Legionnaire of the Twelfth Cohort of the Ninth Legion, what would you have done if I'd simply pulled the dagger, as I just did?"

I spat blood. My head and arm were both ringing. "Well, I could have taken advantage of the moment to whack you with my sword. But after your last parry my sword-arm is numb. The blow would be weak. Besides, you'd expect that and be ready. So I negotiated."

"Failing that I could have dodged past you on the left side of the bridge, putting whalebone between us." I shrugged. "I could have stabbed at you between the bones, while you wouldn't have been able to swing. You'd have to limp after me, while my feet were… are… about the only bit of me left undamaged. Not my preference. I wasn't sure if fighting like that would settle your honor. But… I had it in reserve."

A voice rang out behind me. "You would have cheated!"

I turned to glare at Aelfir Lightspear through bloodshot eyes.

I spat blood yet again. "Cheated? No more than Tsun cheated with his superior strength and reach, and that great bloody axe of his. I was lucky he didn't knock me into the crevasse. And no more than I cheated by coming fully armored and shielded while he fought shirtless, or when I pinned Tsun's foot to the bridge deck. The fight was hardly 'fair' from the start. Speed, guile and armor were the edges I had. I just used them."

I turned back to Tsun. "Besides, if I recall this brawl was about honor, not passage to Sovngarde. A surrogate duelist already paid my toll. True or not?"

Tsun laughed heartily, slapping his own knee. His wounds, still bleeding, didn't seem to bother him. "Well spoken, Little Legionnaire! He shook a sausage sized finger at me. "You've the cunning of Ysgramor, though not his arm."

"You… you fight without honor! You have no right to enter Sovngarde!"

Tsun laughed again. "Actually, young Lightspear, he simply outfoxed me - much as he did with a certain dragon, I suspect, and much to said dragon's sorrow. There's no dishonor in outthinking a foe. Tis not my strong suit, but Ysgramor and Talos and Shor himself often did as much.

Tsun gestured down the bridge with his great axe. "By the Decree of Shor, none may pass this perilous bridge 'till I judge them worthy by the warrior's test…" the guardian glanced at Aelfir "... and that you have done, Little Legionnaire, not once but twice. Once by pitting speed and guile against speed and guile, and again pitting speed and guile against strength and power. You may pass over, Gaius Marcus Tribonius, Legionnaire of the Twelfth Cohort of the Ninth Legion, and may you find welcome and good cheer on the far side."

I saluted with my bloody dagger, then turned to make my way across the whalebone bridge. As I turned I heard Tsun whisper to Aelfir, "Have a care, young Lightspear. The Imperial has guile to match your own, and your styles have more in common than you would wish to admit. Do not let pride and anger blind you to a valuable ally and boon companion."


	6. The Gates of Sovngarde

I found myself fervently wishing that I had Tsun's resilience. While he seemed to shrug off his injuries as soon as our fight ended, my head continued to throb, and I had to keep stopping to spit blood. My right eye was about swollen shut, and my left shoulder ached from where it was almost torn off along with my shoulder guard.

I didn't even want to think about where I was going to find a replacement helm.

In any case, I wasn't about to limp into Sovngarde. I forced my protesting bones upright. Striding as confidently as my mangled self could manage, I made my way across.

Nearing the end of the bridge I saw men and women, many armored in Nord style, gathering. A chant rose over the chasm:

 _Tossed by the tempest, keen blade whirling._

 _Thrice steel bit, thrice scale and flesh parting, thrice hot blood spraying._

 _Scalathrax roared, limbs thrashing, talons raking, fangs gnashing._

 _Tearing at steel, scorching with fire, wings furiously lashing._

 _Grimly he clung, armor shattered, knuckles white, his own blood streaming._

 _Far overmatched._ _Yet fortune smiled – twin gifts of luck and skill._

 _His point the gap found, thrust twixt horned skull and scale-armored shoulder._

 _Deep it sank, full to cross-hilt plunging._

 _Roars became screams, rock shattering, ears bursting, as those below cowered._

 _Hot gore gushed, mortal flesh running like molten lead._

 _Down they plunged, locked in deathly embrace._

 _Crashing to earth, winged-fury and steel-clad avenger._

 _Sovngarde beckons_.

By the Divines…! I flushed hot, blood rising in embarrassment. They made it all sound heroic. What I remembered was cold sweat, burning anger and a scaly beast. I remembered desperation, fear and a lot of pain. Not at all like the tales of ancient heroes, striding like giants across battlefields dim with time.

Maybe that was exactly the way Tiber Septim felt when he took the field. Maybe history books and bardic lays cleaned things up to make a good story. Maybe people didn't want to hear about the terror, stench and agony that went with valor. Maybe they just wanted to be inspired by men and women greater than they thought themselves to be.

And maybe… just maybe… that was alright. If valor inspires everyday people to do more than they thought possible, each in their own way, maybe it was all worth it.

A rhythmic thumping interrupted my reverie. My eyes swept the gathering. Nords beat axe on shield. Scaled Aragonians rapped spear-butts on the earth. Imperials stood erect, fists closed over their hearts. Khajit flexed claws. Bretons lifted shining blades. A handful of gold-skinned Mer nodded.

As I stepped off the bridge a roar broke out from the assembly. I lifted the blood-slick dagger in acknowledgement.

The Shield Maiden shouldered past me, drew her blade and pointed at the crowd.

"Hold!" she shouted. When the acclamation did not abate she shouted louder, "I said hold!"

The roar of welcome slowly faded into silence.

The armored woman pointed her sword tip back at me while keeping her eyes fixed on the crowd.

"I demand to know this Imperial's lineage, that he should receive such welcome! I have seen how he fights… with wicked tricks, not courage and strength!" Many of the gathering, and almost all of the Khajit, stirred at her accusation. "Brothers and sisters, he has not the heart of a hero! He is nobody! He is… common!" Her eyes snapped back to me as the richly accoutered murmured in agreement. Those clad in unadorned clothing and simple gear stirred uneasily.

She squared her shoulders. "Do you deny it?" she snarled.

I spoke, not to the shield-maiden but to those who stood behind.

"I do not deny it," I answered.

"In life I was no one special. I sprang from no great lineage. I was a common Legionnaire, standing shoulder to shoulder with my brothers and sisters in the rank and file. I saw citizens in danger. I saw my duty and I did it, nothing more."

I looked past the angry woman to the gathering.

"Let me tell you a story – the kind you don't hear in heroic tales. The story of people who do not stand before the stone hall of Sovngarde. Their story deserves a hearing."

"My patrol came to the village… I don't even know its name... after a long night march. The dragon was making passes overhead, breathing gouts of fire that set even stone alight.

"Awakened by dragonfire, some died in their tracks, consumed by the holocaust."

"Some grabbed their families and fled. I pray they made it to safety. None could blame them – only a madman would stay."

"I saw parents shield their children from the drake's flame with their own bodies. I saw Nords still in their bedclothes, standing their ground, bending hunting bows at the worm. Arrows skipped off its scaly hide until the monster dashed them to earth or melted them with its volcanic breath…. yet still they stood."

"We Legionnaires did as we were trained. We closed ranks, locked shields. A volley of spears flew from our line. By fortune or touch of the Divines a few stuck in the old worm. It roared and turned on us, ignoring the townsfolk. I remember the blue-white flash and searing heat of that first pass. I survived when my brethren were turned to ash because I stood at the end of the line.

"It… made me angry. They were my messmates and friends. We'd stuck together through long marches in snow and mud, through drunken pub crawls and drunken brawls, and more than a few stand-up fights."

"On the day I died I saw Nords display fury and courage worthy of Sovngarde. I saw love and sacrifice worth of Mara. I saw brothers and sisters in arms give their last breath for people they'd never met."

"I did not stand because I was some champion from a long lineage of heroes. Those Nords and Imperials are the reason I fought when a sane man would have fled. Each of them are worthy of remembrance. If ever again you chant of that day, do not chant of my deeds only. Sing of those who died shielding kin and stranger alike with bow and shield and their own frail bodies that others might live."


	7. The Hand of Talos

There was a long silence. Only the cool breeze of Sovngarde stirred the assembly.

A deep voice rose from the rear. "Aelfir Lightspear, "Did you defeat this man in single combat?"

"No." Her knuckles whitened on her sword.

"Did Tsun defeat him?"

"No," she replied, her voice taut.

"Did Shor's Shield-thane tell the Legionnaire to pass over?"

Even from behind I could see the Shield-maiden redden. "He did."

"Then," the voice continued, "By what right do you challenge his presence here?"

A tall Nord in scaled armor and a winged helm disengaged from the crowd and strode forward.

"My birth and parentage, too, are unknown. I too was an Imperial… of a sort."

The crowd turned to face the speaker, then stepped back; many bowed or dropped to one knee. The shield-maiden also took a step back, though I could see her shoulders shaking. She hurled her blade clattering on the flagstones and strode off.

The great Nord moved to the fore of the crowd. When I could make out his features I gasped. I knew his face from a hundred statues, a score of temples and countless parchment texts.

I sank to my knees, my eyes downcast. Actually… it was more like my joints turned to butter and I melted. I could feel the power emanating from him in waves.

"T… Tiber… S….."

"I prefer Talos," he said. "Tiber Septim is… borrowed. More of a title," he added. He touched my shoulder.

I looked up into steady gray eyes. His hair and neatly trimmed beard were dazzling white, as was the cloak across his broad shoulders. His armor, helm and scales shimmered with every color of the aurora.

"Come, lad. Not to spoil your welcome to Sovngarde, but we've a few things to discuss."

A tiny fraction of his power flowed through my shoulder and through my limbs, suffusing me with warmth and strength. I managed to clamber to my feet.

Talos turned and strode toward the mead-hall, his great cloak swirling. I followed in a daze as he mounted the steps and threw wide the doors. Puzzled at the lack of reaction from the assembly, I glanced over my shoulder. All stood silent, poised in mid-motion.

Of course. Among other things, Talos was associated with Time.

I followed the god into the hall. He snatched up a great tankard and tossed it off, grabbed a joint of beef from a platter, then turned to face me. He tore a chunk of beef from the bone with his teeth, chewed and swallowed. "I do miss the companionship of Sovngarde," he sighed. "Not to mention the food and drink. I really should visit more often."

"M… my lord…?" I managed.

He gestured with the beef bone. "Talos is fine," he laughed. "Relax. Have a bite and a sup of wine yourself. It will help with that," he said, gesturing at my various wounds.

"Of course… Talos." I stepped to the banquet table and grabbed a goblet and a leg of fowl. I tossed back what tasted like a light, heady Colovian Brandy and commenced gnawing on the savory flesh.

My hands were shaking. Being on a first-name basis with a deity… MY deity, actually… was rather unnerving. Though now that I thought about it, Talos' words made sense. Going through eternity with everyone bowing and scraping could get a trifle dull.

"Quite right" Talos quipped, as if in answer to my thoughts. He peered closely at me, one white brow raised. "Very perceptive indeed." He tore off another mouthful of beef, chewed and swallowed. "It can get downright lonely at times, the way they stick us up on a pedestal. I understand the need, but it's good to have people to speak to - as, well, people. That's not why you and I need to talk, however."

"I… ah… take it you don't welcome every soul to Sovngarde, then?"

"No. As a deity I only appear when there is some need." He tossed off the dregs of his tankard and snatched up another. "As I see it a deity has three choices when a soul arrives. We can appear to every spirit that enters Aetherius (wholly impractical) – or none (rather counterproductive) – or only 'at need'. 'At need' neither closes doors nor dilutes the gravity of an occasional appearance. I don't want to create some afterlife caste of 'haves' and 'have nots' based on whether I appear to them, after all. That would only encourage more of the kind of exclusive behavior that young Lightspear inflicted on you."

"To be honest, when time returns to its normal stream the assembly will not clearly remember who I was at all. The memory will be cloudy, and for most it will quickly fade. To do otherwise would be cruel."

"Those who worship me could well be overwhelmed by the experience. The rest of eternity, with all its challenges and wonders, would be diminished by comparison. That would be a poor reward for my own faithful."

"Those who follow in other deities might become resentful, should I appear in lieu of their patrons. I would not have them question their faith and their god, perhaps even the principles and deeds on which their lives were built. Such doubt will condemn a soul to diminish, to return to the Dreamsleeve, to forget and be forgotten. I do not wish that."

"Those who put no faith in any deity would find themselves shaken to the core by seeing a god they ignored, or even denied, 'in the flesh'. As with the faithful of other deities, they would question themselves, their life-deeds and beliefs. But every soul here has earned their place at Shor's table. I would not take that from them through a careless exercise of power."

I went to scratch my head, realized I was still clutching my dagger, and sheathed it. "So belief in self and faith in others – gods and principles - are core to our continued existence in Aetherius," I murmured. "And those who lose it… or never had it… pass on to the Dreamsleeve, to forget and be reincarnated."

Again the white brow quirked upward. "You grasp the essence of it quickly. Have you been chatting up Arkay, lad?"

"No sir. I just pay attention."

"More than most." He clapped me on my unarmored shoulder. Though the blow staggered me, I was surprised to find it didn't hurt. "And so we come to the crux of my reason for visiting Sovngarde."


	8. Of Gods and Heroes

"You, my lad, are in an odd position. You saved that town. Despite all you said about courage and love, Nords and Legionnaires – it was well said lad, well said indeed – despite all, it is you they remember. Even now a statue is raised in your honor. In years to come the tale will grow. This generation will venerate you as a savior. Unless foresight fails future generations will leave offerings and make prayers before the statue. Your actions will mingle with heroes as yet unborn, and will be linked to great figures from the past. Who knows, your deeds may burnish my own reputation in time to come."

"Would that be so bad?" I asked. "I looked to you as a guide to deeds. If not your direct touch, then your inspiration helped save those people. I would certainly hope they honor you for it."

Talos raised a white brow. "You really are kind, lad, in addition to being surprisingly on point. But here's the thing. The townsfolk have no knowledge of who you are. To them you are a hero without name."

"History will likely never know the name of Gaius Marcus Tribonius, Legionnaire of the Twelfth Cohort of the Ninth Legion. You and your fellow Legionnaires will be noted in dispatches as lost on patrol. Perhaps, with luck and if it happens within a generation, some enterprising chronicler poring over old records might make the connection between your patrol and the battle against the dragon."

"That same chronicler will doubtless edit your story to something more 'realistic' in the interest of accuracy if he or she is a historian, or more 'interesting' if that worthy is a bard. If the chronicler is a politician's hireling the tale will reflect the personalities and issues of the day. No matter. The chances your deed will be linked to you by name are vanishingly small."

"You see, a soul here in Aetherius both shapes and reflects living souls of those who remember them. As that memory grows or diminishes and as it changes, it causes the soul here to grow, diminish or change. This is why so many cultures – Nords in particular – instinctively venerate both the dead and the memory of their forebears."

I pursed my lips. "I think I follow. Is that how you became a god?"

"In part. In my case there was a name – a group of names really, including 'Tiber Septim' – so linked to my actual deeds that I did not forget and was not forgotten. As new deeds, legends and eventually miracles were added to my name I did not lose who I am." He shrugged. "There was more to it of course, but that is the gist of it."

"Unfortunately you do not have such history behind you. None living know your name, face, lineage, or other deeds. Not to minimize what you did, but your presence here is wholly tied to your last act."

Talos laid a hand on my shoulder, gently this time. "Should your deed be preserved it will inspire future heroes to overcome the challenges that they will face in their times. I foresee that the power of inspiration from an unknown hero will be stronger than a historical man, identified and deconstructed to meet some politician or bard or scholar's agenda. The little hero in every mortal will look back on what you did in their hour of trial and say "it could be me."

He looked me in the eye. "There is, however, a catch. Regardless of what we do here, historians will repeatedly revise 'your' name and face and lineage and deeds. Your tale will pass from history to legend to myth, undergoing a metamorphosis to meet the needs and wishes of each new generation. New branches will sprout from the tree of your tale while old ones wither. In time your myth will no longer resemble neither you nor your deeds at all. You could become something more than a hero but less than a god – a saint, perhaps. Perhaps even a saint of Talos. But in the process you, Gaius Marcus, the man standing before me, could fade… or more properly, change, perhaps into someone entirely different."

"I might have followed such a path myself had things gone a bit differently. For that reason I would see you remain who you are - Gaius Marcus - at your core."

"I certainly never asked for any of this," I sighed. "But you suggested 'we' might have some impact on things?"

"Indeed. For just as the beliefs and desires of mortals shape our afterlife, so our actions here can shape and influence the beliefs and desires of those mortals who remember us."

"Most heroic souls strive to keep the memory of their earthly lives fresh." He removed his hand from my shoulder, put both hands behind his back and began to pace. "They tend to repeat the same kinds of feats and adventures here as they did in their mortal life. Hence Sovngarde, the abode of heroes, appears as a great mead hall where drink and food flow, challenges are made and accepted, quests are undertaken, mighty battles are waged, and poetic Eddas are sung."

"So powerful are those images in the hearts of all mortal races that even Aragonians and Khajit, whose outlook and beliefs are so different from the Nords, may find their way here."

"I noticed. There were Imperials at the doors of Sovngarde too."

"Some," Talos allowed. "Those whose deeds of valor are not stained afterwards by infamy. You are not alone of your kind amid the halls of Sovngarde, Gaius Marcus Tribonius."

I shrugged. "I always figured I'd end up in the halls of one of the Divines. Maybe Stendarr… or you. My family were merchants, always close to Zenithar."

"I believe I know why you came to Sovngarde above all other possibilities, Gaius Marcus. Here in the Realm of Heroes your heart burned at the verbal darts Aelfir Lightspear cast. Your pride was wounded. Honor demanded you answer her call to battle. Pride and honor – those are the heart of a Nord. And small wonder, for the fathers of the fathers of Cyrodiil were themselves Nords."

A thought struck me. "Wait. Assuming they're with Zenithar, will I ever see my family again?"

Talos chuckled. "That depends on you. Do you think that Sovngarde is a mere reward, an unending feast to congratulate you on your mortal life? In every afterlife – save those of certain Daedra - there are deeds to be performed, battles to be fought and quests to be won. For Zenithar's realm those feats would be mercantile. Here they are epic quests and battles of legend. Striving, achieving, even failure - these things give souls purpose and meaning here, just as in life."

"Spiritually speaking, Zenithar's realm lies far from Sovngarde. Yet there are merchants here and warriors there, depending on the measure of their deeds in life. Should you bridge the distance betwixt the twain it would be a mighty quest, one that both realms would sing of for eternity."

The basso rumble of the god's laughter reverberated through Shor's Hall. "Of course in Sovngarde you do have drinking and the feasting in plenty. It serves to heal and invigorate the warrior soul after hard questing and fighting. Only the Daedra Sanguine offers naught but excess of pleasure to his souls."


	9. Divine Proposal

"Aetherius is more malleable than this. There is room for heroes to quest beyond the bounds of Sovngarde… perhaps to find their kin who dwell with Zenithar, or to meet an unspoken love dwelling with Mara, or even…" he paused and bowed slightly "to walk beside the source of one's heroic inspiration in his own hall."

"Such a quest would be exceptionally risky, of course. The Mists Between are trackless and full of danger. Hungry spirits would gladly prey upon you; should you fall to them your light could be wholly lost. Others, both Aedra and Daedra, would tempt you to turn aside and join their realms."

"However, should you win through your victory will touch the living. Those who keep some part of you in memory, without even realizing it, will be inspired to add this to your heroism in life. They will spread the tale. You will grow, without wholly losing yourself."

"This sounds like Arkay speaking." I crossed my arms.

"I see you have been paying attention – and not only to me. In sermon and scripture mortal scholars and theologians reveal the path my brother Arkay blazed to achieve apotheosis and gain dominion over the afterlife. He and I have long debated the merits of other souls following his example."

"I'm guessing that you were in favor and Arkay was opposed?"

"Yes, though not for the reasons you might think. Arkay did not fear someone usurping his place. Nor did he oppose some soul achieving their own apotheosis and creating a Tenth Divine. What he feared most was the hazard of the journey to the soul assaying it. He further argued that no soul could achieve apotheosis without creating a wholly unique path."

"In your case apotheosis seems far beyond reach. Not to belittle your deed, but you do not have a lifetime of acts on which to build a deity. But for you Arkay's path offers a blueprint for something more than a faded memory of the man you now are."

"A faded memory… what a wonderful image," I answered, my mouth twisting wryly. "Alright, you've got my interest. A path that leaves me fresher than a flower pressed in a book sounds like the better option."

My brow quirked upward as I regarded the god. "Forgive me for asking, Lord Talos, but what do you gain from all this?"

Talos threw back his head and laughed. The time-stilled rafters of Sovngarde rang with it.

"Gaius Marcus, I begin to think that had you been granted a full measure of life you might have made a discerning advocate of Julianos! Again, you see with clarity."

"Should all be accomplished you might become a saint, possessed of more influence on the mortal realm than a heroic spirit, but less than a full god. Such beings are exemplars, showing a way for mortals to become something more than they are. They are guides pointing toward a personal, eternal existence rather than simply returning to the Dreamsleeve to be reincarnated."

"A saint, while more influential than a heroic spirit, still needs a deity to anchor them. This is particularly important because saints, unlike gods, are not tied to cosmic concepts and responsibilities that consume their attention. They are free to engage more directly with mortal souls, to provide guidance and inspiration."

"I would hope that you would bind yourself to me, Gaius Marcus. This path I propose will expose you to all of the Aedra, many of the Daedra, and some spirits of Aetherius who are wholly unknown to mortals. All of them are powerful and have realms of their own. Many, if not all of them, will endeavor to win you to their service."

"Should you succeed, Gaius Marcus, whoever you bind yourself to will gain by your strength, courage, cunning, and may I say, your decency. They will gain by the souls you inspire to deeds in that being's name. Last but perhaps most importantly, they will gain by tipping Mundus ever so slightly in the direction of your patron with every act."

"While you may not be able to act directly in both planes as a god does, a god is constrained to acting when his or her followers appeal to them. A saint may act more freely, acting on unspoken hopes and unrecognized potential. In many ways you can shape Aetherius, and thereby Mundus, in subtle and wondrous ways I cannot hope to emulate."

I looked up at Talos, arms still crossed. "A saint." I shook my head in disbelief. "With respect, Lord Talos, I'm hardly saint material. Ordinary soldiers are not sainted. I didn't do great things dedicated to your glory. I didn't leave behind sermons or learned writings musing on the nature of divinity and god's wills."

"All very true, Gaius Marcus. Or it would be, were it not for the epic act of valor that brought you here. Yet Arkay himself acknowledges that there is something primal about your deed that breaches the customary rules governing the afterlife. What you did touches the very souls of the Nords you saved. It echoes in their hearts. They feel compelled to share the tale and enlarge on it. To be honest, had you performed the same deed in Cyrodiil or Blackmarsh or Hammerfell you might not be faced with the same dilemma. Heroic spirit you might be, but the choice to become something more might have been denied you."

I shrugged. "What other choices do I have?"

Talos nodded. "You could remain a heroic spirit, taking whatever chances history and belief cast your way. As I mentioned before you could seek to repeat your great deed in life, battling the great beasts of Aetherius. There would be the danger of falling in battle, in which case you would fade and return to the Dreamsleeve. Should you succeed you could sustain the unconscious belief and memory of who you were. This is the path most heroic spirits follow."

"For you that path is fraught with peril. The living have no name and no persona to link to you. Even your family cannot venerate you as a revered ancestor, since your deed and your fate are unknown to them. Given the circumstances, even should you become the greatest huntsman of Aetherius your chances of you transforming into someone other than who you are – or of fading altogether - is extraordinarily high."

"You also have the choice to let everything go." He swept the room with both arms. "To leave this. To surrender to the Dreamsleeve, slowly forget, and ultimately be reborn. To get a fresh start, as it were."

"They are not bad choices, Gaius Marcus. Even the Dreamsleeve is not a bad choice. To be freed from one's failings and faults in life and start again can be a great gift. But they are just that - choices."

I frowned. "Are there no others?"

"Every word and act is another choice, Gaius. But alas, I can think of no other options. I have discussed this long with my fellow Divines, and other spirits of Aetherius as well. I foresaw that someday someone like you would happen along, a bold and heroic soul whom circumstances placed in a tight spot."

"Alright, how would I go about this… quest… to visit all the happy places of Aetherius and become the Saint-of-Something-or-other?"

Talos chuckled. "Very bold words, Gaius Marcus, given that you speak to a god. But then, I invited you to speak informally."

"There are many ways to start. The path to sainthood, like the path to apotheosis, is a very individual thing. You could ask the likes of Alessia or Jiub, but their life paths were quite different from yours. Their advice might be of limited value, and simply reaching them would be a quest unto itself.

"Ysgramor might be your best bet. He is as close to a Saint of Heroism as there is. He advises many other souls on their journeys, both on Mundus and Aetherius. He has the added benefit of being right here in Sovngarde, which makes the starting all the easier."

I shook my head. "Somehow I think Saint Alessia and Saint Jiub might be offended by the likes of me trying to join them, even if it seems the best of the available paths."

The god grinned through his silver-white beard. "When you meet them you can ask, Gaius Marcus. You might be surprised by their answers."

Talos leaned against the banquet table, crossing his arms. "I should be off. Ysgramor is right over there," he gestured toward a tall, broad shouldered warrior in ancient, ornate Nord armor. "Listen well, for he knows the pitfalls of Aetherius better than any other."

"May we meet again soon, Gaius Marcus. Rest assured I will be watching your progress closely."

I blinked, and Tiber Septim… Lord Talos… was gone.


	10. Speaking of Festivities

I shook my head and rubbed my eyes. It felt like I was waking up from a dream. Talking to a god apparently took a lot out you.

The flood of mead-hall sounds and smells flooded my senses. I glanced across the raucous mead-hall to where Ysgramor stood, tipping back a tankard as the heroes gathered around him laughed and chatted. He wiped his the back of his fist across his mouth and laughed with the rest.

You'd think that a fellow who just had a chat with his favored deity would not be intimidated by a mere epic hero, but you'd be wrong. Ysgramor the Harbinger loomed nearly as large in lore as Talos himself. It took me several minutes and another goblet of brandy to work up the guts to cross the hall and get his attention. I had to shoulder my way through a crowd of heroes and heroines from every race and time to get within speaking distance.

"Erm… my Lord Ysgramo….."

The ancient Nord set down his tankard with a thunk and tuned his bright eyes on me. He was tall, but not so tall that he loomed over me as Talos had. He was surprisingly broad shouldered – the build of an axeman, I realized. His golden beard was wet with spilt mead.

"Ah, our newest comrade! T'was a mighty deed that brought you hence, and a mournful dirge that sang you across the Whalebone Bridge. But now is the time for celebration! Come, Little Legionnaire, eat! Drink! Make yourself known unto us!" He waved to his companions with both hands. He belched, and the clustered heroes laughed.

"And… 'tis just 'Ysgramor', lad. In Sovngarde all are heroes, measured by the renown of our deeds, not by titles or offices. Not even the Five Hundred Companions call me 'Lord' anymore, right Eyldi?" The hero winked at a great mountain of a woman, clad all in furs, one eye glaring redly from a mass of tousled auburn hair.

"'Course not, Ysh…" she slurred. Seen far too much of ye, bare-arsed drunk and c'llapsed in a corner like th' rest of us."

The assembly roared with laughter, thunking mugs and flagons as they downed prodigious quantities of mead and ale. Eyldi the Bear grinned a lopsided grin as she slumped down on a bench, draining a cup the size of a bucket.

"Right then," I called out, raising my voice to be heard above thunderous guffaws. "It looks like I need to be off on a quest. Someone told me you were the one to talk to."

Several heads turned. Things got suddenly quiet.

"A quest? Already?" A voice rang out. "You haven't even been here one night!"

"Haven't even had a chance to properly celebrate…"

"You gotten drunk yet, Imperial?" "Or laid?" another voice added. There was a ripple of laughter.

"Enough, all of you," Ysgramor rumbled. The laughter died away. "Tis plain to see the lad is serious."

"Another serious Imperial," someone muttered. "Who'd have thought it?"

There was another round of snickers, but Ysgramor's eyes were locked on mine. "Tis no small thing," he murmured. Again the laughter died away. "You've been laid under a geas, haven't you lad? You've got that heroquesting light in your eye."

I flushed. "I'm not sure about the 'geas' part, but apparently there's something important I have to do, and I need counsel. Your counsel specifically, Lor... er… Ysgramor."

I glanced around at the assembled heroes. I had no idea who most of them were, but I was unable to meet any of their eyes. "Ummm… sorry if I'm disrupting the festivities. Feel free to get drunk and laid for me." There was another rumble of laughter as I turned back to the First Harbinger.

Ysgramor's bright gaze never wavered. "Aye lad. I definitely think we need to talk." He caught up his double-bitted axe in one fist and pointed toward the doors of Sovngarde. "Let's take a walk."


	11. Practical Afterworlding

Outside the hall a bracing breeze blew across the chasm. I noticed the pain of my injuries had completely subsided. I had no trouble keeping up with Ysgramor's purposeful strides.

"Tell me lad," he asked at length, "Who told you to be off on a quest so soon?"

"Umm…. Talos," I answered.

"Talos," Ysgramor murmured. "Whitebeard himself. What does the old windbag have you chasing?"

"I'm not hunting anything or anyone, actually. Apparently I'm off on a tour of Aetherius."

Ysgramor stopped and looked me in the eye. "Why would he have you do that, I wonder?"

"To hear him tell it, this is so I can become a saint. He says I'm likely to fade as a heroic spirit because my name and story aren't known on Mundus, at least not beyond that last fight."

"His saint, I suppose? He was always a tricky one."

"According to him, that's my choice. He hopes I'll choose him in the end, but he said I'll meet Aedra, Daedra and others who will try to get me to join them. He thinks that the very fact my name is unknown will give me the ability to inspire regular people to find the hero inside them. Or something like that."

"He said he might well have gone down the same path as I, were circumstances a bit different. He mentioned that it was personal for him, that he wanted me to remain myself instead of changing into someone different."

"That's very interesting," Ysgramor mused.

"I'm guessing you don't trust Talos?" I put in.

"Trust? No, tis not that precisely. As I said, he's always been a tricky one. Even as a mortal he was always two steps ahead of everyone else. You can trust his word as far as it goes, but he might not tell you everything he has planned."

"You yourself are known for your cunning," I observed. "Perhaps you could offer some insight?"

"Hmmm." Ysgramor stroked his golden beard.

"Talos may mean exactly what he says," the hero said slowly. "He's always been touchy concerning matters of name, lineage and identity. They were core to his tale, both in life and afterwards. He might well see a kindred spirit in you and seek to protect you from fading or changing with time."

"I hear a 'but' in your words," I prodded.

"Aye. Tis odd. Talos does not risk souls and lives without purpose. That he would send you on a very dangerous odyssey purely for your own good seems out of character."

Ysgramor pulled at his beard. "He likely expects you to do something or meet someone in your travels that will serve his greater purpose, whatever that might be."

"Could I just ask him what he expects?"

"You could, if you could find him. Being a god he's not tied to any one place. Talos is not even tied to a particular time. Even if you found him there's no guarantee he would give you a straight answer. If he felt knowledge would draw you aside from his intended purpose he would give you some cryptic reply that left you with no more answers than when you started."

"I'm a soldier," I answered. "While I don't need to understand, I'm more likely to carry out the spirit of an order if I understand the reason behind it."


	12. On War

I glanced around, half-expecting the subject of our conversation to materialize at any moment. When that didn't happen, I shrugged.

"I spent a lifetime –short as it was – believing in what Tiber… Talos stood for. God of Man and War, of course, but not war for its own sake."

"Talos was accounted the protector of just rule and civil society. I believe in in that. To be right, might must be tempered with justice and mercy. To protect lives and property, not to accumulate power or wealth."

I nodded at the great hero. "Fame and glory alone are not cause enough to draw blade, begging your pardon. But if the blade is drawn in good cause, fame and glory will doubtless follow."

"You are no Nord," quoth the gilt-haired warrior.

"True enough," I answered.

Ysgramor sighed. "Lad, you were born in an established Empire at peace. You never saw a time of petty hatreds, dissolution and banditry. You never faced the ceaseless predations of cruel warlords."

"Despite the warrior's glory and honor, war is indeed a fell, grim thing. Good people, innocent people, they always suffer. Where war goes, famine, banditry and disease inevitably follow."

"Sometimes war – even a war of conquest - is needful. Sometimes war alone can bring order out of chaos. Sometimes war alone can end suffering and protect lives and property."

"But once the blade is drawn, it is no kindness to hold back. No half measures. The spirit of war must be purged in blood and fury until it is wholly spent. Only then will victor and vanquished be willing to turn the axe to wood and the spear to the hunt. To do otherwise only prolongs conflict. Unslaked hatreds simmer beneath the surface, ready to burst into bloody conflict - in a year, a decade, a generation."

I quirked a half-smile. "All aggressors claim to use war to bring peace and order, do they not?"

"Ruthless men will use any excuse to war," Ysgramor allowed. "Gods, patriotism, race or culture are all suitable. Even wounded pride or perceived injustice will do. Whether a man claims a just cause is irrelevant. By his deeds you will know the truth of his claims – or not."

"Justice is best applied before a war, or when choosing a side," he continued. "Mercy is only applied afterwards. In between, if you do not immerse yourself totally in the craft of death you will hobble whichever side you chose."

"Glory comes from fighting well. Fight with cunning, tenacity, courage and strength and you cover yourself, and your cause, in glory."

"Honor comes from what you do on the bloody morning after. If you recognize the glory won by both friend and foe. If you show mercy to captives. If you show kindness to those who suffer. If you do not insist on payment of blood-debts that can never be paid."

"Some foes, lad, will never relent, can never be reasoned with. Those are a hard choice once the war is won. To let them live will let their poison bubble and ferment, infecting new souls until it bursts forth again. To slay them is a cold and heartless thing that will devour a bit of your soul. There simply is no good answer with such folk, where mercy is cruel and justice is wickedness."

"What I'm saying, lad, is that justice and mercy are well and good if a civil society already exists. In a time of dissolution and chaos, following either path can lead to a bitter future. Yet to ignore either is to surrender – to one's own selfish desires."

I cleared my throat. "So there's no right path?"

"It depends very much on the circumstances. Personalities, conflicts, even the land itself. It becomes what you – and all others involved - make of it. Succeed and you win honor, and your fame is burnished. Fail and your name will be accursed by your children and their children until your name and deeds are forgotten."

"But I digress. The real lesson is that once sword is drawn and the bow knocked you must not hold back. The field of hot battle is where you earn glory, lad. Do not shy from glory, even if you do not seek it. Do what is needful to win the battle and end the conflict as swiftly and decisively as you may."

"Give your foeman a sharp enough rebuke and you may not have to toss dice on battle a second time. Honor the foe afterwards and you may find yesterday's foe is tomorrow's shield-brother."


	13. Faith and Hope

I leaned back and crossed my arms. "I had not heard that Ysgramor was a philosopher," quoth I.

Ysgramor laughed, his golden beard shaking as he caught up his flagon. "Likely not," he chuckled. "Likely not. But then, none of us are truly known, even by those who knew us best in life." He brought the cup to his lips, tilted his head back, then back again. He squinted inside the empty flagon, then shrugged and tossed it aside.

His bright eyes gleamed as he met my gaze. "You should know that lesson better than any, Imperial. And if you do not, you soon will."

"So," Ysgramor continued, "what do you mean to do?"

"About Ti… Talos?" I returned.

Ysgramor shrugged. "For a start."

"Well, since he doesn't seem inclined to clarify things at the moment, I'll have to make up my own mind."

"Good start," Ysgramor grinned. "Many folk never get that far. They'd sooner wait for signs and wonders than make a choice." Someone shoved a fresh tankard in the heroes' hand. He immediately lifted it to his lips, but paused, eyeing me over the rim. "And?"

"And…"

A thousand doubts flooded my mind. Tiber Septim had sketched out a map of the afterlife and a recommended course. Ysgramor questioned Talos' motives and pointed out how dangerous that course would be.

Ysgramor was still watching me over his raised tankard.

"Regardless of path, my future will be dangerous. I could fall and fade as easily sailing the mist-sea as I could fighting afterworld beasts in a bid for memory and glory."

"I have always believed in what T… Talos stood for. Whatever his motives, I believe in that still. So I reckon I choose to believe in him."

I stood straight, flexing my shoulders. "I choose to believe that Talos will let me know what matters when it matters. Until then I can only push forward with what I know, and with such people and tools as I can assemble."

"If I blaze a path between realms, even a precarious one, it opens the way. Lost loved ones can reunite. That can only be a good thing. Every soul, here and in every other godly realm, benefits whether they help me or not. It will make each of us stronger. It gives us something worth fighting for beyond simple fame and glory."

"This way, I might be able to make a real difference. I hope. And if no one in the mortal realm knows or cares… well, so be it."

"It sounds as if the choice be made, lad." Ysgramor drained the tankard at a single pull. He set it down on the table with a thunk.

"It is," I returned. "It's the gray seas of mist for me. But I'll need help. I'm no sailor. I'll need a ship, a crew and perhaps most importantly a navigator to have any hope of crossing between realms."

I touched my shoulder. "A new helmet, shield and shoulder-plate wouldn't go amiss, either. Are there any smiths willing to work in Imperial style hereabouts?"

Ysgramor seized another joint of beef and tore into it with gusto, hot juices running into his golden beard as he chewed.

"Lost or damaged gear is easily amended," he mumbled around his mouthful. "Garith Firsthammer was the first master of the Skyforge. He and his fraternity of successors were doubtless sizing ye up from the moment you set foot this side of the great bridge. Few escape Tsun's gentle ministrations with arms and armor intact!" He swallowed and gave a satisfied belch.

Ysgramor swallowed. "I just might be able to help ye in this," he quipped. "There's some restless souls hereabouts who'd be needing a venture like this. Something epic. And we've no lack of skippers, sailors and steersmen who might be able to help ye along the way."

I nodded.

"Remember, Gaius Marcus. Once blade is drawn and arrow nocked, do not hold back," quoth he.


	14. A Ship for Misty Seas

I spread my hands. "And a ship?"

"Aye, a ship. Well, we've never plied the mist-seas much, save right around Sovngarde here. Small boats, mostly. Heroes sailing just far enough to find krakens and leviathans and such."

I opened my mouth, but Ysgramor raised his hand. "Now now lad, give an old hand a chance to finish! It seems we've got a fellow who'd relish the challenge. Yfelli Goldeneye was a crusty salt even in my day. T'was he who built the ships that brought the Companions from Atmora to Tamriel."

"Yfelli has talked the ear off any who would listen about building craft for a voyage such as this. He maintains that Atmora itself has a spirit-realm in the mists, and he'd return to it. Give him a place aboard and a crew and he'll build as fine a craft as ever ye might wish."

I nodded. "We'll timber, tools, nails, and a crew willing to labor." I pulled at my chin. "The labor will be the hardest. I'll need heroes willing to bend their backs without promise of fame or glory. No small feat in Sovngarde, unless there's other coin I can pay them in…?"

Ysgramor chuckled. "Well, 'round hereabouts the coin IS glory and honor. Gold we have scant need of, and food and drink we have a-plenty. Of course, some will answer the call for a good roll in the hay if ye be so inclined…"

"Erm… no." My face flushed hot. "That's not coin for service, not in my book. I'd have to be caring about a lass before I'd bed her."

Ysgramor clapped my shoulder. "Romantic, eh? Well, I'll not gainsay ye. T'will make keeping a lass easier and building a ship harder. Most likely it'll be a trade then - a place aboard for a strong back."

"I'd be wanting more than just sword-arms aboard," I mused. "We know not what we'll encounter out there. We'll want magecraft to be sure, and certainly a bard or two to capture the crew's deeds for the saga. A sharp eye, a keen wit, perhaps even deft fingers might be called for. Not to mention a skilled navigator."

"Such folk may not be much aid building the craft," Ysgramor observed, catching a tankard that was slid down the table by another denizen. He tipped back a deep draught, then wiped his lips. "'Twill be an issue for those who labor if delicate hands who wield neither saw nor hammer are let aboard."

"Perhaps," I mused. "They could be put to work for Yfelli as eyes and ears rather than hands." I pursed my lips. "Or…" I continued, "Since we need fewer magi, scholars, scouts and thieves than warriors, we might have to winnow the field a bit."

"Winnow the field?"

"A competition. It would bring honor and glory right here, ere we ever cast off. And it would give reason for the warriors to let a man or woman aboard who'd not swung a mallet to build the ship."

"Tis a thought, lad," Ysgramor grinned. "Like the Challenge of Mardi?" I raised an eyebrow. "No worries lad, t'was long before your time. I'm thinking I see what ye've got in mind. Leave the testing to old Ysgramor. T'will be fun to come up with challenges for other than warriors – and I think I know just the spirits that'd be willing to help."

"As for you, 'twill be enough to seek out Yfelli. Doubtless he already has a plan in mind for such a vessel, but he'll need a slipway, lumber, rope, pitch, tools, nails… the list goes on. It'll be work enough just to get ready for the master to practice his craft."

"Seek him out?" I scratched my head. "He's not…?" I waved at the crowd of heroes feasting and drinking in the hall.

"Nay, nay. Yfelli be a private fellow. Keeps to himself mostly. Always did. These days he mostly roams the strand north and east of Sovngarde, gazing the horizon for what he believes to be Atmora. Best go and find him lad, while I set to work on the games here." He took another pull at his flagon. "Y'know, games. Feats. Competition." He belched again.


	15. To the Mountains

I took my leave of Ysgramor with a bow. As I headed toward the doors of Sovngarde a hooded, cloaked figure caught at my sleeve.

"Leaving so soon, hero?" The voice was soft, the hand on my arm slender. "All this is for you, you know."

"True, but Sovngarde's denizens are well into their cups. They won't miss me - if they thought of me at all past the welcome. Besides, song, feasting and revelry are not my style. And I've something to do."

I pulled away, but the stranger's grip was surprisingly strong. "What sort of thing?"

"I need to find someone who's not here," I answered, frowning. A partial answer, perhaps, but I was mildly perturbed at being stopped. "Might I have my arm back…?"

"Of course." I was released. "May you find who… or what… you seek."

I cocked my head. "Thank you," I returned. "Might I know your name?"

"You might," came the reply. The cloaked figure vanished into the milling revelers.

I stood straight, peering over bobbing heads and raised tankards, but no sign of the stranger did I see.

"Odd," I mumbled. "Who in Sovngarde would want to hide their identity to have a word with me?"

I shrugged. No point worrying about it. The stranger would doubtless drop by for another chat if it was significant. Besides, about the only person in the Mead Hall with reason to hide their identity from me… would be the shield maiden, Aelfir Lightspear.

It fit. Thanks to me, Lightspear had shamed herself before Tsun and again at the doors of Sovngarde. Reason enough to hide her identity before speaking with me. And that grip, slender but strong. That fit too. The soft voice could be an effort at subterfuge as well.

But… subterfuge was decidedly not the shield maiden's strong suit. She was all about honor and direct confrontation. The stranger was soft spoken, displaying neither bluster nor threat as Lightspear had. In any case, if it was the shield maiden those parting words were uncharacteristically encouraging. Perhaps it was not Lightspear after all.

But if not her, who? Some as-yet unnamed entrant into the game?

I furrowed my brow for a minute, then shrugged again. No point fretting over it. The possibilities were endless. Sovngarde was full of heroes - some of them erudite and subtle, utterly unlike the aggressive shield maiden.

I threw open the doors of the mead hall. As I turned to haul the portals closed behind me, a bracing breeze rolled across the nightscape, bringing with it the salt tang of the sea. The scent made picking a direction simple. I re-crossed the whalebone bridge and turned upwind.

The song and laughter of Sovngarde faded. The night breeze was surprisingly brisk. I hunched my shoulders, wishing I had my helmet, or a cloak, or at least a headful of long hair in the Nord style to ward off the chill.

The ground rose steadily toward a cleft in the distant mountains. Even from here I could see the glint of snowcap on the peaks.

My leathern boots whispered through thick turf and flowers. I paused to pull off my footgear ere wading a swift, rocky stream – I didn't want wet leather to shrink and crack on my feet. The swirling water was icy cold.

After drying my feet on the grass I re-donned leather and continued up the slope. Turf and flowers gave way to rocky ground and spiky grasses. I had to pick my way among boulders. A startled fox skittered at my approach. The mournful bugle of an elk echoed among the rocks.

Above, the aurora writhed, casting a kaleidoscope of color over the landscape. My boots crunched. I looked down to see a rime of frost crusting grass and stone.

A stiff breeze stung my cheeks. I ducked my head, tucked my hands under my armpits and pushed on.

My ears grew numb. I cursed under my breath. Striding forth without furs was dumb. I hoped I wouldn't regret that – or pressing on before I had my missing gear replaced.

Frost gave way to patches of snow. My boots crunched steadily, dinting the white crust and leaving prints as I passed. The wind rose, and I began to wonder whether it was possible to catch frostbite in the afterlife.

I was beginning to think about turning back when the ground levelled out. A stony path led into the mountain cleft I'd spied from the lowlands.

I hurried on, leaning forward into the icy wind. A fine spray of ice crystals, whipped to a fury, stung my exposed face and ears as I forced my way into the darkened pass.

Stone cliffs rose sheer on either hand, channeling the wind into the howling blast. My eyes were downcast – I didn't want my eyebrows to freeze! I cursed myself for not planning or preparing for this. Did I think things would be easy because I was in Sovngarde? This was the realm of heroes. Of course there would be challenges. Beauty, of course, but challenges everywhere. Stupid, stupid man.

That's when I heard a voice rising above the howling winds, at once mingling with and emanating from it.

"You… shall not… pass."

"Oh, bloody Oblivion." I squinted up through stinging wind. Thought I saw a darker shadow etched against ice-crusted rock and dim hollowed crevasses.

"Stand… and you shall fall. Flee…and I pursue. Your marrow will freeze…"

"I get it already," I snarled. You'll freeze my marrow, encase my heart in a block of ice, encrust my face in a rictus grin of terror." I pulled my hand from my armpit, flexing my half-frozen fingers ere I gripped my chill sword hilt. I yanked hard. The rime of frost cracked and my blade slid free of the sheath, adding a spray of ice crystals to those whipped up by blizzard winds.

"So what are you?" I called out. "Some kind of Ice Demon? Frost Dragon? Dessert Ice? I like mine with honey and walnuts."


	16. Chillfire Pass

Whatever it was, it did not appreciate my sense of humor. A backdraft drew the frozen winds away from me, momentarily stilling the howling wind.

It reminded me of facing dragonfire. The intake of breath would be followed by a furious blast. I spied a craggy boulder to my left, and dove behind it.

Stupidly, I glanced back. With a howling shriek a shock wave shredded the snow where I'd been standing. Shattered stone and ice shards burst in all directions. An ice shard sliced my cheek. A stone clanged off my remaining shoulder plate. Another ice shard shattered on the Imperial dragon icon on breastplate. Pulverized rock dust and ice crystals pitted my face and the arm I threw up to shield my eyes.

"Well. That was… impressive," I muttered, spitting blood from a split lip. The hot red fluid steamed as it flew, freezing on impact against the ice-glazed boulder.

I raised my voice. "Clearly, your worship, I've overstayed my welcome."

Equally clearly I had no way to combat such a monster. One man, no helmet, one shoulder guard, no furs, no healing potions, no ice wards. More to the point, no fire or anything else to directly counter the beastie's mastery of ice. Make that one stupid man.

A proper Nord hero, some Einherjar of Sovngarde, would howl his defiance at this juncture and charge. Doubtless he'd be frozen into a blonde-haired, blue eyed icicle for his trouble.

Fortunately (or not), I was no Nord hero. I sheathed my sword.

Gathering my legs underneath me, I burst from the shelter of my boulder in an explosion of snow. Again I felt the backdraft, this time off to my right. One, two more steps, then I threw myself hard to the right, curling into a ball as I rolled through the snow, instinctively holding my breath.

The howling shriek tore over me. I felt my close-cropped hair turn to ice and shatter. I felt trickles of blood coursing down my head and face, turning sluggish and freezing solid in mere moments. My armor grew heavy as it was encased in deadly frost, every crevice and joint stiffening. My tunic and trousers crackled stiffly, infused with frozen crystals, my own clothing tearing at my flesh.

I slammed against something solid but yielding. The breath whuffed from my lungs. The momentary mist of warmth momentarily illuminated an ill-defined shape, like a bedsheet cast over a barrel.

That is, if a sheet were tossed over a barrel a two-and-a-half men high.

I gasped in shock, icy air burning my lungs as I inhaled. "Surprise! Found you!" I croaked.

My eyes watered in near-panic, droplets freezing on my cheeks. Without thinking I rolled to my knees, tore my gladius from the sheath and swung it with all my strength.

The blade tore through something yielding, with little more resistance than chopping cobwebs. My arm passed through the something-ness, flash-frozen as the hellish chill instantly turned flesh to ice.

Stars exploded past my eyes. A primal scream burst from my lips. I toppled forward, sinking into the snow, my right arm fully extended, still clutching my sword, encased in a sheath of gleaming black ice.

But if my blow caused me icy agony, no less did body heat - and perhaps blade - wound my foe. The wind shrieked like a crippled beast. The swirling mass writhed. I could see a gaping tear in what appeared to be a twisting vortex. Three feet above the tear, a pair of blue-white orbs narrowed like eyes squinting in pain.

At that moment I should have fled. The thing was injured. This was my chance to make a break for it. But something told me that close combat was the thing's weakness. Running would just let the thing recover, finish me with killing blast to the back.

Besides, my blood was boiling.

"You like that?" I roared to be heard above the wind's howl. "Want some more? Give me a hug, you ugly bastard!"

My right arm was frozen stiff, extended straight out from my side. I drew my pugio, my broad-bladed dagger, with my left.

So this was how a heroic spirit 'died', eh? Frozen solid in some waste, to fade and be forgotten. Screw it. At least there'd be one less ice demon to plague the afterlife.

I slashed the frozen air with my pugio, a last moment of bravado. Somehow it reminded me of flourishing my gladius before I rammed it home under the neck-scale of a dragon.

I charged.

To my shock, the swirling mass of the demon retreated, howling. I pounded through the snow, kicking up a frozen spray as I closed the distance.

The wind-howl changed tenor from a raging shriek to a tremulous wail. The demon turned its wound away and vanished.

It wasn't exactly a win, but I'd take it. I stumbled and fell headlong. Ice crystals stung in my mouth and nose.

I raised myself on my left arm, still clutching my dagger, spitting and snorting.

The night had gone quiet. The wind had died. The only drifting snow was that which I had kicked up in my thrashing.

I heaved to my feet, staggering stiffly. Every inch of exposed flesh was scoured abraded and blackened by hell-wrought crystals. My clothing crackled with every movement; embedded ice tore at my abused flesh. Both ears were numb, torn, bleeding and almost certainly frostbitten through. A hot salt-iron trickle dribbled from my gelid, crusted nose over mashed lips. The flesh of my dagger hand was blackened and sloughing. My sword-arm… well, that didn't even bear thinking about.

Yet somehow I was alive, and I'd be damned if I wasn't going to keep it that way.

The fight had carried me clean through the pass. The craggy downslope of broken boulders and skree was punctuated by patches of snow and scrub grass. In the distance it gave way to turn and forest, rolling gently to the shores of a distant, misty sea.

On the verge of that sea I could see light. I squinted. Buildings. Smoke curling into the aurora-lit, star-kissed sky.

I tried to sheath my dagger and missed. Squinting angrily, I tried again. I finally managed to slide the pugio home with a snick. I flexed my frozen fingers and proceeded to stagger down the slope, idly wondering just how ugly I'd be if I managed to survive.


	17. Peculiarities of Postmortem Recovery

It took me the better part of… well, maybe a decade, I couldn't tell... to descend from the mountain pass. I began to wonder whether it was always night in Sovngarde, lit only by moon and stars and the dancing aurora. Yet at length the night-lights faded. The sea flushed orange and pink, infused with a golden glow. Finally the sun herself rose, warm and bright over the deep blue ocean.

Feeling began to slip back into my torn flesh and extremities, and it wasn't pleasant. Even after the snow crystals melted and dried, my injured flesh was painfully abraded at every step. My nose, ears and fingers tingled and burned.

As for my sword arm, the shoulder began to thaw first. The pain brought tears to my eyes. I halted, grinding my teeth. I plunked down on a boulder, biting back the pain and rocking back and forth until the throbbing, tingling and burning subsided enough to make walking possible. At least the shoulder would bend, and I didn't have to walk about with my sword-arm extended like some child's doll any more.

With difficulty I managed to pry the sword from the frozen fingers of my right hand, gritting my teeth. I carefully sheathed it with my left hand. With a groan I clambered to my feet. I continued onward and down-slope until the pain grew too great, then sat again until the worst passed. Then I moved on.

The land was awash with saffron and pink light. Scrub grasses were punctuated by blossoms of dazzling yellow, blue and red. Sprigs of lavender and clusters of red berries filled the nostrils with a rich mélange of floral and herbal scents. Flashes of brilliant plumage and trilling bird song filled the air. I didn't recognize much of the flora and fauna, but the medley of sights, sounds and smells dazzled the senses.

Still, I had learned a hard lesson in the pass. While I might appreciate the scene, even revel in it, I kept a weather eye out for aught that might be a threat. I opted to swing wide of a stand of dark conifers, wary of unseen denizens who might savage me in my current sorry state.

I paused at a gurgling stream to slake my thirst and examine and clean my wounds. As a Skyrim veteran I knew frostbite when I saw it. Noses, fingers, ears and toes were usually the first to go, but I'd seen whole limbs amputated. Redguards and Argonians were particularly vulnerable. Khajit, somewhat protected by their fur, were a warmland people who were subject to frostbite. Anyone could fall victim. Even resilient Orsimer and native Nords could lose a limb – or a life - if they got careless.

The danger was very real when facing ordinary winter or mountain cold. The pass had been far worse - a hell-wrought demon of ice and snow, wielding frigid winds as a weapon.

I'd already seen the signs of flesh-death in my own meat and skin. I knew that only swift attention from a healer-mage or immediate application of the most powerful regenerative elixirs had any hope of saving an ice-killed limb like mine. And here I was, hours after freezing near solid, with no medical help at all to be found.

So… one arm, no ears, no nose. Maybe half my surviving fingers and toes if I was lucky. Skin would probably be all blotches and blisters if I didn't contract gangrene. Not to mention that anyone who got cold injuries once was more susceptible to them in the future.

Wonderful way to go through eternity. Just wonderful.

With some trepidation I examined the fingers of my left hand. They hurt the blazes, which was actually a fairly good sign; a thawed frostbite with no pain usually meant the flesh-death was deep into the meat, with amputation to follow. To my surprise, my fingers, though painful and peeling, were no longer blackened. They were red, and the flesh color changed when I pressed them. Heartened, I slumped to the ground and pulled my boots off left-handed. Like my fingers, the toes were intact, red and peeling.

I felt a little thrill of hope stirred as I tentatively touched my ears and nose. By Talos, from nose tip to earlobe, I could actually feel the touch of my fingers! And my fingers could feel warmth in the tortured flesh as well!

Finally, I willed myself to look at my stiff, numb sword arm.

The visible flesh was black, just as I'd feared. The pain was excruciating in my upper arm, but after some prodding around my armor and into my tunic I guessed that there was some life below my shoulder, perhaps as far as mid-bicep. Not much to go on, but after the quick recovery for my fingers, toes, nose and ears I allowed myself a little hope.

Maybe in the afterlife any wound, injury or illness that didn't immediately kill healed more quickly and efficiently? Given the chance I'd find someone who had been healer in life and ask. Or Ysgramor. Or Talos, if he decided to pay me another visit. In any case, a one-armed afterlife was better than an eternity as a Draugr look-alike.

I clambered to my feet, feeling the tickle of grass blades and pebbles underfoot. I decided to continue on unshod, slinging my boots over one shoulder, the better to stir life into my toes.


	18. Cat's in the Cradle

My stomach soon grumbled. I saw herds of elk and a browsing bear; at one point I caught sight of a creeping shadow that was probably a hunting Saber Cat. Toward evening I saw several roe-deer near at hand. Alas, without javelin or bow I had no way to bring the skittish beasts down. Lacking the skill to forage edible plants I swallowed my hunger and soldiered on. I stopped several times that day to slake my thirst, but noticed that I felt little surprisingly fatigue. I wrote that off as another of the 'benefits' of being dead.

The sun was setting once more when I decided to find a defensible place to halt for the night. After a search I located an outcrop with a good view all around, topped by a stand of tundra cotton and not too far from a rushing stream. Cutting a haft of scrub oak I fashioned a spear using my pugio and strips of tunic cloth. I used the makeshift spear to skewer a fat salmon from the stream. After cleaning my catch in the gloaming, I roasted it over a fire of deadfall. The pink flesh was firm and juicy, and my appetite assuaged. The evening was cool, but not uncomfortable as I disassembled the spear, cleaned and sheathed my dagger. That done, I cleared a space and laid out a bed of fresh-plucked cotton bolls. I lay back on my bed and gazed at the heavens, watching stars and moon wheel overhead while the shimmering aurora undulated across the heavens.

I'd survived a fight when I'd had no right to. My belly was full, my thirst slaked, and I was comfortably stretched out under a breathtaking night sky. It really didn't get any better than this. I drifted into a dreamless sleep.

I awoke to the snap of branch. In an instant I was on my feet, gladius drawn, ears alert, eyes searching. I could hear the soft whuff of breath below my refuge and the soft tread of stealthy feet.

I knew of only one creature in Skyrim willing to hunt a man in open country. Come dragon or ice demon, the thought of being stalked by a Saber Cat caused a lump to rise in my throat. Fast, agile and preternaturally strong, with a bite that could tear the throat from a brown bear and claws that could rake the hide from a mammoth, the big cats were implacable hunters. Once they were set on bringing down a target there was only one way for it to end. Someone - predator or prey – was going to die.

Well, it wasn't going to be me. Not tonight. Not after all I'd been through. I gripped the gladius in my off-hand and bared my teeth.

As if in answer, a shadow bounded up out of the dark to land lightly on my outcrop. The big cat gave a guttural snarl, glaring at me with slitted yellow eyes.

It crouched, ready to spring. The fingers of my left hand flexed on my sword grip.

The cat exploded toward me with a roar, claws extended, raking. I spun to one side, wincing as claws screeched across my vambrace, but I avoided the Saber Cat's hurtling mass.

I'd seen Saber Cat attacks before. Had the creature borne me down it would have pinned me with those massive fore claws. Once pinned it would rake my legs and belly with its hind claws while going for a killing bite with canines longer than my dagger.

As it was, I cut at the cat's back as it flew past. Imperial steel struck true; blood spurted, and the big cat roared in rage and frustration. It staggered a bit as it landed, roaring as it spun on enormous forepaws to renew the attack.

There was no respite. The cat sprang again, fangs agape, claws spread wide. Instead of dodging I sprang in under its attack, planting my foot and lunging upward, blade fully extended, with all the power I could muster.

It was a risky move, but there was no way to spring aside far enough to miss the embrace of those claws. If I failed the cat would have me pinned, right where it wanted me.

The gladius punched through fur and hide into Saber Cat innards, driven by my lunge and all the power of the cat's own spring. As it roared in surprise and annoyance I released my sword – too long for such close work - leaving it embedded. The beast crashed down, more or less on top of me. I drew the pugio and sank it into the Saber Cat's side to the hilt. Hot blood spurted as the cat clawed me, raking my lorica. Metal shrieked, leather tore and buckles snapped under the assault. I hunched my head into my shoulders and struck again, striking a glancing blow that was deflected by a rib. I felt the hind claws tearing at my gut, gouging my cuirass, rending the leather pteruges that protected my hips and upper legs and tearing rents in the flesh beneath.

The cat's hot breath was in my face as it tried to gain purchase for a killing bite. Fangs snapped and clashed scant inches from my face. One fore claw sank into flesh, gripping my unprotected shoulder; the other claw flexed, digging into armor joints but doing no damage.

Slowly, inexorably, the Saber Cat began to drag my body into position for a lethal bite.

My left arm was still free. I stabbed again with my dagger, this time sinking it into the haunch just below the hip. With a desperate wrench I tore it loose and went for another stab, this time between ribs and hip.

As if sensing my intent, the cat's right hind claw stomped down on my left arm, claws sinking into muscle as it pinned my weapon-hand to the round. The fore claws continued to drag my head up for the final bite. The stench of Saber Cat breath made my head reel.

At that moment the fingers of my half-frozen right hand found the gladius, still embedded in the cat's guts. More by luck and instinct than skill, I managed to grip the handle and wrench it upward. The blade tore muscle and internal organs. Hot blood gushed.

The cat howled in agony, its shriek disturbingly like the scream of a wounded woman. It released me and sprang backwards, trying to put distance between itself and the source of its torment.

I was dragged upward by the gladius, tangled as it was in the cat's innards. I managed to hang onto the blade when it tore free, half on my feet. I gripped the blood-slick blade in my ice-injured right hand and glared at my adversary.

The creature was hunched, mewling as it half crawled away, trailing intestines and blood.

Glaring, I met the thing's yellow gaze. The fury was still there, but so was the pain. And the fear.

It would crawl off into some hole and die slowly, thrashing in unbearable pain for… hours? Days? However long it took for death to grant release. The cat knew somehow, and it was afraid.

That Saber Cat was still dangerous. It had tried to kill me - and still would, given half a chance. Like a Nord berserker, it would take comfort in dragging it's slayer to death along with it. Maybe it had wanted to make a meal of me. Just as likely it had meant to kill a competitor and leave the corpse for the vultures. Or in this case, to fade from existence.

Leaving the cat to die just made sense. Still, somehow I couldn't let the damn thing suffer. Something in those eyes.

But I had neither javelin nor bow. No way to deliver the coup without getting in range of tooth or claw. Unless…

Keeping an eye on the cat, I edged over to my smoldering fire. I groped and found the makeshift spear-haft. I unsheathed my pugio and began to rebind it to the scrub oak shaft with discarded strips of my tunic.

The Saber Cat lay still, breathing heavily, whimpering from time to time while I worked. When the grim task was done I hefted the spear, testing the dagger-point to make sure it was secure. Finally I approached the supine beast.

I hefted the spear – in both hands. We looked at each other, mangled man and dying cat.

"Sorry it has to end like this," I said through clenched teeth. I didn't pick this fight. You did. You'd have killed me if you could. I'd have killed you clean if I got the chance. But I didn't. We didn't."

I hefted the spear, twisting it in both hands. "You fought hard until you couldn't fight any more, like the hunter you are. Gotta admire that. Honor it, in my way. Hircine… I don't follow that Daedra, but he's gotta look on this fight – your hunt - and smile. Even if the hunter became the prey in the end."

I began to circle. The Saber Cat's eyes followed me, eyes glazed, breathing labored.

"So, it's like this. You did what you did. I did what I did. But the way it turned out… I'm not gonna let you suffer. Give you a clean end. And when it's done I'm gonna take your pelt, And when anyone asks why I have that pelt, I'll tell 'em your story. So you won't be forgotten."

I stopped behind the cat. It's head half turned, glassy eyes half-closed.

"Go to Hircine, my enemy."

I sprang forward, half expecting a last desperate attack from the Saber Cat. It did not move as I drove my spear between it's ribs, piercing the heart. The mortally wounded beast gave a shuddering sob. The great head slumped to earth.


	19. Yfelli's Strand

It was well after daylight when the grisly job of skinning my feline foe was done. I wasn't especially skilled at the trade, but I did a halfway decent job of it. From watching Nord trappers and some of my fellow Legionnaires I knew enough to scrape fat and meat from the inside of the hide. I knew that trappers often stretched hides on racks to dry and cure them – but I had no time for that.

I also took time to pry the canines from the cat's big jaws, scraped them clean and tucked them away. By the time I was done the place was swarming with flies and ants. Vultures circled overhead and I could see other scavengers circling in the brush beyond my refuge.

I took time to wash myself, my gear and the hide in the stream. Now in the daylight, with my armor and tunic set aside, I had ample opportunity to examine my wounds. My left hand looked as though it had never been blackened by the cold. I was pretty sure my nose and ears were healed as well. My right arm was about where my left had been the previous afternoon – still showing signs of frostbite, still hurting like the chains of Oblivion, but clearly on the mend. Even the claw wounds of last night's encounter were closed and healing, with no sign of infection.

Apparently death brought its own form of immortality in the form of rapid healing. It kind of made sense, considering all the tales. Once you died you never aged. Never got sick either, as far as I heard. It was like your spirit portrayed you as you were at the moment of your death, forever.

Although… Ysgramor had died an old man, yet he looked as he probably did in his prime. Maybe it was because he was a legendary hero. Or maybe that's how he wanted to appear. Or maybe there was something else involved. Tiber Septim - Talos - had mentioned how Talos the God was the sum of many people; maybe there was something in his appearance that came from each of the spirits who contributed to Talos as I saw him. Of course, Talos was a god… maybe different rules applied.

Or maybe it didn't really matter. Maybe I was overthinking it. If my luck held I'd be able to ask those questions of people with more learning. Later.

Once everything was cleaned and re-equipped I rolled the Saber Cat hide and tied it off with the selfsame tunic strips I used to make the spear. Finally, I turned to my foe's corpse one last time. I offered him an Imperial salute, fist over my heart.

"Fare well, bold hunter. May Hircine welcome you to his hunting grounds."

I slung the hide across my shoulders, my face toward salt air, bound for the distant sea. Kyne's creatures swarmed to the feast.

The land grew verdant as I descended toward the sea. Rock and scrub grass gave way to lush, green turf. Patches of purple, red and white blossoms nodded in the salt breeze, surrounded by swarms of buzzing bees. Stands of wind-bent larches, pines and aspens yielded to thick copses of oaks and maples. Though the sun was bright I continued to avoid thick vegetation that could provide concealment for some enemy.

It was noon by the time I reached the coastal strand. I paused to strip off my boots and examine my sword arm. The pain was fading do a dull, tingling ache, and the ugly black and purple flesh had become an angry red. Unable to do more, I shrugged and turned toward distant wisps of smoke that marked human habitation.

Trudging along the beach my feet sank into the pale sand. Cold water swirled around my ankles as the breakers raced up the shore, eroding sand from underfoot as they retreated. After a few minutes I quit fighting with the surf. I turned inland above the high tide line, wiped my feet on the sea-grass and pulled on my boots once more.

I made better time in the afternoon. Though my stomach began to grumble once more, I only stopped to drink from a freshet that tumbled over a rocky outcrop.

It was late afternoon when I crested a small rise and saw a fishing village clustered at the mouth of a small river. I hurried toward thatched houses of unpainted wood planks. Children played among racks of drying ocean fish and larger racks for drying and repairing nets. Far out at sea I could spy the long, lean silhouettes of small craft heading back in for the evening.

I realized they were the first children I'd seen in Sovngarde. As I approached I heard voices call out; the children scrambled toward their homes.

By the time I arrived the street was empty. Every door was shut and every window shuttered.

Figuring the townsfolk had brought their children inside at the approach of a stranger like myself, I plunked myself down on a chopping block to await the return of the fisher-folk. By oar and sail the lean craft hove inshore, beaching themselves in a cluster away from the village. They approached in a tight group, hardened seafarers with frowning faces and narrowed eyes, harpoons and clubs in hand.

"Good evening," said I, bowing slightly. "I'm Gaius Marcus Tribonius, Legionnaire of the Twelfth Cohort of the Ninth Legion." If anything, the fisher-folk tensed more at my words. I spread my hands so they could see I carried no weapon. "I come in search of Yfelli the Shipwright," I continued. "I have need of a vessel to ply yonder sea." I gestured toward the grey, misty breakers from which they had come.

A broad-shouldered man pushed through the crowd.

"Well, ye've found 'im." The man turned his harpoon point-down and drove it into the sand. "I be Yfelli. This town be Yfelli's Strand.


	20. Fishy Hospitality

"Yfelli," I nodded. "I was told you might build a craft that can actually cross the sea to other realms."

"I might," the man answered. He crossed thick arms over his chest. "Who sent ye, and hat name do ye go by?"

I sensed a trap. I thought a moment, then shrugged. "Gaius Marcus Tribonius, Legionnaire of the Twelfth Cohort of the Ninth Legion. Ysgramor advised me, though it was not he who sent me on my errand."

The broad man did not flinch. "And who would've sent ye forth, Gaius Marcus Tribonius?"

"That would be Tib… Talos," I corrected myself. The fisher-folk remained tense.

"Is there a problem between your people and Sovngarde?"

"No problem if ye be a mead-swilling 'hero' with an axe-head in place of brains," a voice called out. "And a millstone where a heart should be," cried another.

So… not all was well in the afterlife.

"I can't speak to all that," I answered. "I only just arrived, not two days ago. Truth to tell I was surprised to find myself there – I didn't know Imperials could end up at the mead-hall of the Nords."

"Look. It's getting dark, and you need to bring in the catch. Your families are waiting." I jerked a thumb over my shoulder toward the houses. "Let me help you offload the boats and we'll discuss things later, close by a hearth with food and cup in hand."

"That's not funny, Imperial," Yfelli snarled.

"What do you mean?"

"Our families were taken sixmonth agone."

I cocked my head. "What? I saw children playing as I approached, and heard housefolk call them in as I approached. I saw smoke from the chimneys…."

I half turned. The windows were shuttered and dark. No light came from within. No smoke curled from hearths.

"That's not possible," I muttered.

I heard the crunch of bare feet on sand and turned my gaze back toward Yfelli and his comrades. The fisher folk were advancing, weapons lifted.

"Just a moment," I lifted my hands. "Something is obviously amiss. I'll help you set it straight if I can, but you've got to tell me what happened!"

Yfelli gripped the shoulder of one of his companions. "Hold, lads. I think this one means it." He took a step forward and met my gaze levelly. "At least, he'd better."

"Start from the beginning," I urged.

Yfelli pursed his lips. "Started back ninemonth ago," he spat. "Nord come down outta the mountains like ye. Called herself Gral Redmane, on account of her hair. Said she was from Sovngarde - like ye."

"Come into town and accepted our hospitality she did. Said she was on some quest or other - like ye," another sailor put in.

Silence.

Another comrade nudged Yfelli and he continued. "Aye, that she did. Shared our catch and our ale. Then she headed off into the high country. Had that glazed look in her eye that Sovngarders get when they're under a geas." The broad man gestured at me with a thick finger. "Like ye."

"Twas not a threeday after that a howling ice storm came out of the mountains. Out fishing we were. Drove us out so we could not land. Took shelter in a cove half a day's walk south. By the time we reached home our fisheries were ruined. What boats and nets we'd left behind were wrecked. Our houses were smashed open, and our kinfolk gone.

Yfelli spat. "We searched inland most of three week," he continued, "but woodcraft and mountain lore be not our strength."

"The weather started threatening. Our supplies were getting low, so we come back here to resupply. Been sending out search parties ever since, whilst some made repairs and kept net and harpoon in use."

"You think this Gral caused the disappearance?" I mused.

"One way or t'other," the shipwright replied. "We don't get ice-storms out of the mountains of a springtime. Too much coincidence, that."

Ice storms. Hmmm.

"Have you had problems with Sovngarders before?" I asked.

"Some," Yfelli grunted. "Bunch of tomfools with silly notions of honor and glory, mostly. Come through from time to time on their quests. Some were decent enough sorts, shared tales that were worth a listen, or songs. A few would lend a hand with the nets and the catch, even."

"Others were slit-eyed sneakthieves who'd lift a shiny bauble just because they could. Some fancied themselves irresistible and tried to make free with our persons . A few were hard-muscled brutes who meant to demand aught at sword point. We saw that sort off with harpoon and club, as we thought to do with ye."

"Sovngarde is chock-full of adventurers, warriors and reavers," I agreed wryly. "A single heroic act can get a soul past the gates. Decency and compassion don't seem to be required."

"So it seems," Yfelli nodded. "So we take to any wanderer from the mountains with a mite of caution."

"Fair enough. So…" I pulled off my helm, "…why would I see families as I came upon your town?"

"That I can't say," Yfelli answered. "Storms, be they from mountain or sea, are fraught with magics here on the Strand. Odd things happen, but mostly they are set right within a few days' time. But never anything like this."

"Can you tell me more about Gral Redmane?"

Yfelli shrugged. "Seemed harmless enough. Bit of a scholar, that one, or a mage, but she had the wild eyed look of a quester. Went on and on about black winds howling with emptiness and something she called a Wen-dee-go."

I ran a hand through my close-cropped hair and sighed. "Ah. Then I think I know what he was talking about - and perhaps where it is."

Yfelli's eyes blazed and the sailors leaned close. "Y'do?"

"Aye. I encountered something very much like it in the mountain pass on my way here. Damn near froze me solid. I think I know its weaknesses, too. I managed to hurt it a bit, but… there's no way I could beat that thing alone."

Yfelli gripped his harpoon and pulled it from the sand. "Show us the way and we'll follow ye!"

I shook my head. "Yfelli, you already told me that forest- and mountain-craft are not your strength. Nor are they mine. I'll warrant your folk are sailors, not warriors. It'd do no good to stumble about the peaks looking for a… thing… that rides the wind and wields ice like a dagger. It can freeze flesh and bone solid in a heartbeat."

"What I will do is set aside my own quest." I gritted my teeth.

"I'll find someone who does know the mountains. I'll find a way to wield fire to counter its cold. I will track down this creature for you. If your families still live, I'll see them returned." I straightened before the shipwright. My frost-bitten fist thumped the steel of my lorica.

"And if they do not live, by Talos and Stendarr I'll see your families avenged. This is my pledge to you, Yfelli, and to your people."

Yfelli's mouth gaped for a moment.

"We've… never had an oath sworn before us by a Sovngarder," he murmured. "Much talk of honor and glory, but never a promise to aid us at need."

He stepped forward and extended his thick hand. "We accept thy sworn word, Gaius Marcus Tribonius, Legionnaire of the Twelfth Cohort of the Ninth Legion. If by any means we can aid ye in this quest, by word or deed, with goods or craft, in living or in dying, we shall abide."

I gripped his hand. I felt a tingle in my neck and shoulders and knew our oaths had been heard.


	21. Return to Sovngarde

"Yfelli, I ask that you and your people be patient. I'm off to Sovngarde to bring help. I'm gambling the Wendeego will take some time to heal, so I'll get through the mountain pass alright."

"When I return I'll need one of your folk to come with me as a guide. You may not know the mountains, but I'll wager you know the lands on this side of the mountains better than any Sovngarder. That, and I'll want someone known to your families, so we'll know them and they will trust us."

"Don't go up into the mountains yourselves. Mend your nets and your boats, gather the sea bounty and repair your town. I hear tell that a wife returning home to find things less than when she left can be as dangerous as a wild boar."

The sailors chuckled.

"And when I get back I'll want to hear how it is that you here have families and raise children, while the Sovngarders do not. It seems to me that your lot may have the better of the deal."

Even Yfelli smiled. "Aye, Sovngarder, we can do that. May thy gods watch over thee."

"My gods and yours both, I hope."

My stomach grumbled. "Umm…"

Yfelli laughed out loud. "Now that we can fix. And you should get a night's rest before trying the pass."

I awoke on a cot in Yfelli's cottage to a breakfast of salt herring, a snowberry tart and a thick, dark ale. "The last of my Minardi's tarts," quoth he. "But I be more than glad to share it."

"Minardi?" I managed between bites. "Your wife?" I drained off the last of the ale.

"Aye. Her folk were from the far west of Atmora. I met her as a youth, sailing the coastlands in trade. Long and long ago it was, but her eyes still sparkle like dawn over the waves."

"I'll bring her back if I can, Yfelli."

"Aye, I believe ye will, if ye may."

My ice-bitten hand was hale and whole again. I flexed my fingers, hoping the Wendeego couldn't heal as quickly.

The townsfolk had gathered to see me off. They pressed gifts of scrimshaw and carven shells into my hands. A shimmering pearl, a small bottle of roe packed in fish oil and a reddish bracelet of sea-coral found their way into my pouch, alongside more practical supply of smoked fish and a skin of fresh water. I was grateful when one sailor threw a heavy fur cloak across my shoulders.

"Wish I'd had this on my way here," I grinned. "Thank you, all of you. I'll return as quickly as I can.

I waved goodbye and took off at a trot. The thought of the ice-demon recovered and waiting for me spurred me along as I left the coast behind and strode into the high country. I kept a wary eye out, avoiding coverts and stands of trees and giving any wild thing a wide berth.

I reached the chill highlands as night fell. I considered making camp so as to avoid turning an ankle or falling into a crevasse in the dark, need pressed me toward my goal. The gloomy mountain cleft beckoned.

Icy winds began to beat on my face. I remembered the wind blowing into my face on the way from Sovngarde. It seemed wrong that winds would flow out of the pass in both directions.

Wrong? Well, unnatural. Which was natural after all, given that a Wendeego lurked in that brooding pass. I hunched my shoulders, pulled the furs tighter and pushed on.

My boots sank into icy snow. I forced my way through knee-high drifts as the winds howled and shuddered, up whipping snow-dust to freeze my nostrils with every breath. The cold seeped through my boots to nip my toes. I dared not stop to rest; if I did I'd just go to sleep and never wake up. I'd seen that happen in Skyrim. All the while my ears were alert for that spine tingling keening of the fell wraith I'd heard on my first trip through the pass.

At length the snow drifts lessened. The wind was now at my back. Finally, the first rays of dawn filtered from behind me, sparkling as they lit blown snow and ice and teasing my weary body with a tickle of warmth.

Before me in the distance lay the lights of Sovngarde. It seemed the gods were with me, if only for the moment.


	22. Author's Notes II

Well, it's the holidays and I'm a bit under the weather. Posting will be a bit irregular over the next two weeks or so. My apologies in advance.


	23. Doubt and Loathing in Sovngarde

I threw the doors of Sovngarde wide in my haste. Many lay in a sleepy stupor, while some roused themselves as I entered.

Steel was drawn. "Ho! What stranger enters this hall unbidden?" The ringing voice was familiar.

"No stranger," I answered, tossing aside my furs. "Just a nameless Legionnaire on a mission."

"Gaius Marcus Tribonius, as I live and breathe! Or not, actually." Ysgramor laughed at his own jest as he descended from the high table, sheathing his blade. "When you ran off we thought you all dead – or gone."

"Not yet," I answered, "though I damn near was. Never mind that - I need comrades for a monster hunt."

"Ho ho! Not even a week in Sovngarde and you call for a hunt?"

I strode up to the golden-haired hero. "Aye. I made an oath. And I could use your counsel. Again."

Ysgramor cocked his head. "You really are moving too quickly, little Legionnaire," he grinned.

"Maybe," I answered. "Too late, though. There are folk that need help, and time is short."

"We're dead, Legionnaire," a hero spoke up. "We have all the time in the cosmos."

I turned to face the speaker, a brown-haired shield maiden with piercing eyes, and planted my fists on my hips. "Maybe we do," I returned, but the families of Yfelli's Strand don't. They're in the claws of an enormous ice wraith they call the Wendeego. Apparently a heroic spirit named Gral Redmane went in search of it some weeks ago, but the thing took Yfelli's housefolk and children."

There was a rustle of furs and clinking metal. Some heads were raised, bleary eyes staring.

"Maybe you should slow down and tell the tale from the beginning," Ysgramor said quietly.

"… and that's when I headed back here," I concluded. "As I see it we'll need fire-wielding. Hopefully fire blades, if that can be managed; even my plain gladius was able to hurt it up close. Plenty of healing draughts too, and whatever magics ward off bitter cold. I'm thinking archery will be less valuable up there with the Wendeego's mastery of winds, and cast magics might get deflected by ice and snow."

"We'll want Nords. Maybe Orsimer too, or anyone else who's resistant to cold. Warmlanders like me would be vulnerable to the cold this thing wields. I'll have to go as a guide of course, and Yfelli's folk will provide us with another guide to help with the families and the lands beyond the mountains."

Ysgramor pulled his beard. "How many do you think you'd need?"

I shook my head. "Not many, if you're talking about fighting the thing," I mused. "Maybe half a dozen. I was able to hurt it by myself, unprepared and with no enchantments."

Finding it will be an issue," I went on. "We'll need several excellent trackers who know mountains. I heard the thing before I could see it in the blizzard. I didn't really look for tracks, but if it left any they'd be blotted out quickly by wind and snow. We can count on the thing fleeing if it's hurt, so the hunters could be in for a long, difficult chase."

"Another problem will be escorting survivors through the creature's territory back to Yfelli's Strand. Or if the families are dead, tracking the monster to its lair and dispatching it. For that matter, we really need to hunt the beast down and destroy it whether there are survivors or not. Otherwise, the monster will just heal and come back for another go at Yfelli's people."

"Assuming this Wendeego is the only one of its kind," Ysgramor put in. "It may not even be the most dangerous of its kin, if it has kin."

"Have you encountered these ice-wraiths before?" I asked.

"Ice wraiths yes," Ysgramor nodded. "Even Wisp-mothers who control small ice sprites. But never something as large as you describe. Certainly none which controls winds and ice in a mountain pass."

"If it wasn't just a simple ice wraith and an overwrought imagination," the shield maiden put in.

"It was," I insisted. "And Yfelli's folk are convinced it made off with their families after a spring ice-storm."

"Perhaps. Perhaps it's just Cyrodillic posturing to cover a newblood running off on his own."

"You're welcome to stay here, guzzle ale and gnaw on beef-bones if you wish," I growled. "No one asked you to come."

"Actually, I would recommend that Aelfir Lightspear join you on this quest," Ysgramor put in. "She's a Nord of mountain stock with a tracker's eye. And while she isn't a fire-caster, she has some skill with the powers of light that may help counteract the aura of darkness and emptiness you describe. Just as her name suggests."

I glared at the shield maiden, who returned my glare with venom. I had not seen her without her helm before. Now that sneering face etched itself into my memory.

"Aelfir Lightspear," I spat. "Why am I not surprised?"

Ignoring me, the shield maiden turned to Ysgramor. "Do you actually believe the Little Legionnaire? He is a newcomer, no true Nord, and utterly lacks a sense of honor. He is full of guile and subterfuge…"

"As am I, Lightbringer," Ysgramor's words cut her off. "My name was made using guile and subterfuge as well as strength. Do you challenge me?"

As Lightspear averted her eyes, abashed, Ysgramor continued. "Guile and subterfuge are tools, as are strength, speed and skill at arms. Stealth, leadership, a keen eye, magecraft and knowledge as well, for that matter. Tools do not define the hero – character does. You would do well to remember that."

He looked me in the eye. "As would you, Gaius Marcus Tribonius. Use the best tools at hand, whether fair or not. Aelfir Lightbringer is made for a quest such as this. I recommend that you include her."

"Very well," I grumbled.


	24. REAL Author

The holidays are over. More importantly, I've (mostly) recovered from my recent illness, conveniently timed to overlap Christmas. My family will be eternally grateful for me bringing dread disease into the household to share for the Day of Frantic Gift-giving and Conspicuous Consumption.

Don't get me wrong, I love the traditions, both sacred and secular, associated with Christ's Birthday (celebration). However, I'm with Charlie Brown and Dr. Seuss on this one - it's hard to enjoy the season when you get positively manic about 'getting everything right' for it. And that's all before being miserably ill on the day in question.

Huzzah.

Back to the tale. With this chapter we come to the end of pre-written work. Everything before 'What About' (and a portion of that chapter as well) was written in a week-long period in response to a dream in September 2017. Of course, much editing and addition ensued after the initial burst of creativity, but that's how these things go for me.

While I have a clear idea of many things I'd like to dig into in ensuing chapters, your input and criticism are quite welcome. This is about telling an entertaining story, exploring the spiritual nature of the afterlife of the Elder Scrolls world and torturing... er... developing some (hopefully) interesting characters.

I do hope that the foreshadowing isn't too heavy handed, particularly in the 'What About' chapter. When I first wrote it the Great War had not yet broken out, as neither the Altmer nor Imperial characters - including the very recently dead - commented on it.

I thought that the Great War would actually break out during the Weendego hunt, with repercussions to be felt on our heroes' return. I quickly rewrote the chapter to reflect that the war was already over. While I could have suggested that time runs strangely in Aetherius relative to Mundus, I didn't want to rely too heavily on that trope.

I've done a good bit of thinking about the Dreamsleeve and how it manifests in Aetherius. I think I've got an answer I like, but any input you have on the subject would be welcome.

Regards!


	25. What About

"Does anyone know Gral Redmane?" I asked. "Yfelli seemed to think he… I think it was he… came from Sovngarde, and that he had the glazed eyes of a man under geas. He seemed to know about the Wendeego, even be obsessed with it. Perhaps the Wendeego was his quest…?"

"I do," a sonorous alto answered. I turned to see a tall Altmer lady clad in dark blue robes lift a wine goblet in our direction. "Gral Redmane is a Nord of some small skill in the mage-arts. Something of a tribal shaman or spirit dancer from before Ysgramor's time as I recall. She – Redmane is a woman, you know… is particularly enamored of the study of nature spirits. Had some crackpot theory that a spirit – even a non-sentient one - left to its own devices in a favorable environment would become infused with the nature and power of that environment. She felt that over time such a spirit might gain sentience, albeit a limited sentience focused on maintaining and expanding the environment of which they had become master."

As I tensed, some of the other denizens of Sovngarde actually growled. Memories of the Great War were fresh in everyone's mind... including mine, though I had been too young to fight. My family had lost a lot in the war, including several family members and much of our trading interests in Cyrodiil, Hammerfel and Sommerset Isle itself. Others had lost far, far more. Still... we needed specific skills, and this Altmer might have something we needed. I swallowed my distrust.

"And you are?"

"Vellis Tracendere, Archmagos, at your service. Late of the Summerset Isles. I turned Kheldax' Cylindiran Helix Rubric against itself, cancelling his attempt to turn time back to the mid First Era. This turned both Kheledax and myself inside out as well, I'm sorry to say, and sentenced me to an eternity in this algid afterlife. Fortunately, Kheledax' soul was taken off by some Daedra or other."

"In any case, Gral Redmane is surprisingly capable in the ars magica - as humans go. Far ahead of her time in magical theory as well, which is how I became aware of her."

"It would not surprise me in the least if Redmane attempted an experiment on her spirit theory which got a bit… out of hand. She was quite forward-thinking as previously mentioned. I must say it does not surprise me in the least that one would confuse Redmane for a man. She was rather large and quite plain, even as Nords go. Very direct, no manners whatsoever. A pity her features did not match the refinement of her mind."

"It would seem you know more of Gral Redmane than anyone else here," I spoke up. "Perhaps you would join us on this quest?"

"Yes, fine, of course," Vellis answered, tipping the goblet to her lips. "I do feel somewhat… er… responsible for the girl. I encouraged her to pursue her magical studies and test their validity, if only to relieve my own boredom. Perhaps she even made a breakthrough worth considering. Besides, these halls are ever more vapid since the bumpkin has wandered off. A jarring expedition into savage hinterlands may be just the thing to spice up an otherwise dull afterlife."

My eyebrow arched. There was something that the Altmer wasn't telling, but I was in a hurry. "This is not about relieving boredom, Vellis Trancedere, but your knowledge of the Redmane would be valuable if you're willing. What type of magic do you yourself practice?

"Alteration primarily, with some small skill in Conjuration. She set down her goblet and raised two delicate hands. "Not what you're seeking for this venture, I'm well aware. However, the Alteration school would prove useful when preparing for battle. She dropped her hands and leaned forward, her voice hushed, her gilt eyes boring into mine. "Conjuration would permit me to bring a flame Atronach to the fray as well. Not a great threat to your Weendego to be sure, but likely enough to distract it with flame."

The Altmer straightened. "Of course," she added lazily, "nearly any mage would be able to contribute to your quest - should you look beyond simple swords and axes." She gestured at the scattering of robed figures about the hall. "Your words give hope that a 'cosmopolitan Imperial' might be willing to consider the ars magica - albeit in limited fashion."

From her prickly tone she wasn't exceptionally fond of Imperials, either. I wasn't particularly surprised.

There was a murmur among the gathered warriors. Whether it was magic or the Great War, here yet another fault line among the denizens of Sovngarde.

It could be either. In life I'd seen Nords were not overfond of magic. In those days I had guessed their disdain had to do with the harsh struggle to survive in the cold north. Such a land did not breed folk who valued patience and inquiry over action and steel. The study of magic took years, if not decades, to bear practical fruit. Not terribly practical if a Saber Cat was trying to rip your throat out, or you were freezing to death in the wilds.

I shrugged. It was probably both. Another case of "As above, so below," I supposed.

"Very well, Vellis Trancedere, your presence is welcome." I raised my voice. "Since we debate the value of magic, friends, I should appreciate a fire adept and a healer to join our little party."

"You'll find none more skilled in the flame than Andard Buckingcroft," Ysgramor put in quietly. "But you'll not find him drinking in the Mead Hall. He riffles his books and scrolls in the Northwind tower – just north of Sovngarde, unsurprisingly. 'Twill be a challenge to coax him hither, however – he is a student of lore, and no venturing soul."

I nodded at the ancient hero. "If any have the gift of speech, please coax him to join us. I suspect that rescuing a mage, and particularly one skilled in obscure studies, will be a powerful inducement."

Ysgramor clapped me on the shoulder so hard that I staggered. "Well lad, you seem to have this crowd well in hand. I've little enough to say here, and moving studious Andard will be quite the challenge for an old silvertongue."

I opened my mouth to object, but Ysgramor wagged his finger under my nose. "Now now, little Legionnaire, I said you have things well enough in hand here, and I meant it. I'm bored listening to you intellectuals prattle, and I could use a short jaunt outside Sovngarde. Besides, are you afraid of being left alone with a bunch of mean old Nords?"

There was a ripple of laughter, some of it less than merry. Ysgramor grinned through his beard and punched me lightly.

"I'll be back within a day. Don't start a war while I'm gone!"

He turned on his heel and strode from the hall. I knew I was going to miss his counsel.

I turned back to the gathered mob of heroes. Hard faces, eager faces, anxious faces all peered at me with hungry eyes. Whoever I chose to join me, some of these hungry eyes would be disappointed.

"We'll want a healer then. After that a scout, and he or she needs to be a skilled tracker. Then some warriors, five or six who are ennured to the cold should be enough."

There was a sigh. Those who did not meet the descriptions I gave slumped a little.

"Do not worry, friends. This quest is but a precursor. Whether we succeed or fail, a much larger saga will follow. So ready your arms and hone your skills – and your seafaring skills. Ysgramor will tell you more on his return."

The crowd stirred. I smirked a little, setting up ol' Ysgramor like that, but it served him right for meandering off and leaving me.


	26. Choices and Consequences

"Well, on to the rest," I went on. "Tracker, fire mage, warrior. Some three warriors I should think."

"Three warriors? You could look further and find naught better than Frajl, Morvin and Grax. Aye, and they call us the Warriors Three, for what one of us does all partake of."

The speaker was a barrel-chested Nord, smiling as he clapped two companions on the shoulder. His ruddy beard bristled and his scarred countenance was framed by a clutch of thick russet braids. He wore a very old form of Nord armor, thick iron plates lashed to an even thicker undercoat of fur and leather. The iron helm at his knee sported a pair of down-curved horns like a ram. Her hefted a bloody great axe, clack-hafted and scarred, and slung it across his shoulders.

Beside him stood another Nord, a tawny haired woman as tall as he. She wore a peasant dress that could not conceal her powerful physique. She leaned on a long-hafted hammer, whose ahead and haft both were intricately carved and inlaid with tracery of silver and gold. A golden torc rested about her throat. Her ice-blue eyes were aflame as her companion spoke, and she gripped her weapon with near-manic eagerness.

The third member of the trio was a dark-skinned Orsimer with a single tusk and one good eye. The left side of his face was scarred – nay, shredded – from some titanic battle of yore. He wore a sharply angled breastplate of orc-make over a brazen scale corselet and a classical orcl helmet. A rather crude, green-tinted axe was clutched in one gauntleted fist – oricalcum, without a doubt. A circular shield was slung over his back.

"Frajl, Morvin and Grax, I take it?" quoth I, indicating man, woman and orc in turn. I glanced behind the trio, looking for someone to else to speak up. Oddly, there was nary a peep from the gathered crowd of heroes.

"Two Nords and an Orsimer. Exactly what I was looking for. You've worked together many times them?

"In life and in death, in slaying and in breaking, in loot and plunder of all the world's riches," growled the orc. "Reavers three, bound by oath and blood and beyond life's ending."

I did not much like the sound of that. Raising my voice I addressed the whole gathering. "Will others here speak to their prowess, their skill at arms?"

There was a murmur of grudging agreement. I wanted to ask about their trustworthiness. Neither their appearance nor the orc's words were exactly reassuring, but questioning honor in an assembly like this might just cause an unwanted brawl and forment feuds that could last for… well, eternity. I bit my tongue.

"I see scant opportunity for reaving or plunder in this venture," I admitted. "It's a rescue mission, not a raid. But if you'll take your pay in honor's coin and glory's treasure you'll have enough."

"Where there's battle there's always loot," answered Morvin. "If only from the dead this 'wendeego' leaves behind and the gratitude of their families. Besides, my hammer has been still far too long. It longs to crush skulls."

Again I looked to the rest of the crowd for an alternative. Some faces were averted, while others' mouths were twisted as they gazed upon the reavers. None volunteered. I wondered if these three somehow managed to bully the heroes of Sovngarde… but that didn't seem possible. I'd never heard of them, in history or in legend.

At least, not by those names.

As with Vellis, the fate of Yfelli's families was clawing at my spine with icy talons. I hadn't the time to debate this, not while there was a chance the women and children of The Strand might yet live. What was I getting myself into? I never figured Sovngarde would be populated by folk like this. I gritted my teeth.

Of course I never figured on coming to Sovngarde, either.

"If you're willing to protect those we come to save, stand by those who stand by you in battle, and deal honorably with all we meet… you're in."

The orc eyed me keenly with his one good eye. It looked like Morvin wanted to say something, but Frajl laid a gauntleted hand on her arm. "Aye. Done. You won't regret our blades by your side, Imperial."

Perhaps, but I was more concerned about a dagger in my back.


	27. Stealth and Silvertongue

I raised my voice. "There are none other who'd draw blade alongside us?"

I was unable to keep the annoyance from my voice. My query was met with stony silence.

"Have we a tracker then, and a mage versed in the disciplines of fire… and perhaps ice?"

Again there was a long silence. A few of the heroes began to drift back to their cups and feasting. The loss of enthusiasm was palpable. I was becoming seriously concerned with my choice of companions.

"You might try Noman, son of Nonesuch," a voice spoke up. A low snicker rippled through the crowd.

I didn't hear them clearly - or I didn't believe what I had heard. "Who?" I glanced at Vellis, who shrugged.

"Noman, son of Nonesuch. Mightiest mage of fire, lion of Anywhen."

"Cease your games!" I snapped, my face flushing scarlet. "Time is short. I need a mage versed in fire. Are none here with the guts to stand alongside me – or is the vaunted courage of Sovngarde all show, which evaporates before the first icy breeze of fear?"

Another murmur swept the crowd – this time, an angry buzz. I heard the rasp of steel drawn.

I checked my hand's automatic twitch toward my own sword-hilt. "If its steel you want I'll oblige," I grated, "but only after the people of the Strand are freed. Right now those people are the priority, not pride or even honor."

Somehow that was not the right message to send to Sovngarders. Pride and honor was what they were all about.

My eyes swept the crowd. "So no fire mages, then? What about a tracker?"

"I'll go," trilled a clipped Redguard voice.

The crowd half-turned to face a figure fully half a head shorter than the surrounding mass of Nords. The speaker slipped through the cluster of heroes.

It was a young Redguard, no more than ten or twelve summers to my eyes, and all swathed in rags.

"You!?" snorted someone in the crowd. "What do you have to offer?"

"You're naught but a beggar," sneered another.

"Why is he even here…?" another voice mocked.

I turned to the young… lad? "What is your name, and your story?"

The beggar bowed. "This one was known as Azani of al'Adin." The slender Redguard bowed even lower. "A rangy and long-legged lad was Azani, beggar indeed, and worse. In life Azani was a thief and a liar and a cheat. This one took both daily bread and shiny baubles at will. Only the denizens of the Maul, al'Adin's wickedest slum - who would gladly slit their mother's throats or sell their sister to slavers for a single silver coin – would abide Azani's presence."

"You're not inspiring confidence," I confessed. "And you're not explaining how one of your… accomplishments… was admitted to Sovngarde."

"Patience, effendi! Let the tale spin itself out, this one implores."

I nodded.

"As I was saying, Azani stole aught which tickled the fancy. Upon one night, a night of sparkling diamond stars – ah, this one remembers it clearly! – while prowling the districts where fat merchants and wealthy nobles abode. Behold! A young girl caught Azani's wandering eye. She stood gazing upon the twin moons upon a narrow balcony, a tear in her eye, lost in some private reverie."

"Naturally, this one seized upon her inattention to steal her. Of his intentions at that moment Azani can say little. Whether this one meant to sell her into slavery – ah, the price she would have fetched! – or simply desired a person of this one's own age to banter with, Azani cannot say."

As his tale rambled, I grew suspicious. The speaker had a silver tongue indeed – the crowd was rapt, and I with them. I clapped hands on the hilts of my blades and was relieved to find them still there. As I glanced around the crowd I noticed a couple of ragged individuals quietly relieving Sovngarders of their goods and robbing the feast tables, only to scamper off into the dark recesses of the hall with their gains.

"And your own ages is…?" I broke in. Several members of the crowd blinked.

Azani al'Adin spread his hands and inclined his head. "Ah, who can say? This one came of no station in life, with no family and no prospects. Why else would one descend to the ratways of the Maul and ply the twin trades of stealth and thievery?"

"Why indeed?" I answered. "I do appreciate the tale, Azani, and implore you to proceed. But I note that you have come no nearer to explaining your presence in Sovngarde, or your special skill in tracking, or your desire to join an imperious Imperial, a haughty Altmer and a trio of reavers on a quest into the wilds."

Again Azani inclined his head. "Effendi, you do yourself – and your comrades - little service with self effacement, though this one commends your keen eye and ear."


	28. Spinning a Tale

"Let all know that that girl was Dahlia of Sa'han, wise and beauteous. And let all know that she fought her kidnapping like your Skyrim Saber Cat. Azani has the scars to prove it, even unto this day! Sharp of wit was she, and equally sharp of tongue; yet did she manage to beguile her captor with tales of life in a family which knew both love and kindness. Such things were incomprehensible to one such as Azani. But equally incomprehensible were the dropped hints of casual wealth sprinkled through her tales."

"This one formed a plan. Azani would return to the family of Dahlia that treasure they valued most – their daughter. In return Azani would compensate himself in the form of coin, goods and valuables commensurate with the esteem they held for their daughter."

"As it was said, so it was done. The girl was 'exchanged' for the wealth of her house– bound and gagged, alas, for she knew not whither she was carried and insisted on fighting every step of the way. This one made off, cloaked in night shadows, none the wiser."

"Yet that was the night that the invasion struck like a swift scimitar upon the walls of Adin. The Yokudan had come. In one night the city fell, bathed in blood under the twin moons, never to rise again. Although the Yokudan themselves adapted somewhat of our language, culture and architecture, our people and history are utterly lost. Even now the last of Adin's alabaster walls sink into the sands of Alikir, with only Dunerippers and scorpions to lament."

"Yet some did not die. This one did not die. On some impulse, Azani returned to free Dahlia from her bonds. We fled to the desert, leaving the city aflame behind us."

"We spoke much in those days, having none other to speak to. Dahlia's tales of life with enough to eat and drink, with family and friends to trust and cherish, and with time to concern oneself with esoteric concepts such as honor and compassion were wholly alien and fantastical, yet they beckoned Azani like a moth to flame. Much the same, Azani's tales were of desperate adventure and life with purpose – even if the purpose was mere survival, and perhaps a little greed. More than a little, actually."

"We survived in those days by raiding the Yokudan. You asked, effendi, how Azani learned tracking skills? It was even thus, and thus did this one also master bow and saddle and the ways of the desert – all needful things for one hated and harried and hunted by those one hates and harries and hunts."

"As to this one's coming to Sovngarde… Azani cannot say. Know only that in time Azani and Dahlia were separated by a death. Know also that in time the Yokudan themselves began to change – or perhaps prove themselves – not merely rage-fuelled savages but a people of learning and culture and honor."

"This one began to wander the sands, contemplating the meaning of this life and the words of family love Dahlia had provided. Azani began to observe, not merely take. Azani saw smiles and joy amid the harsh sands, not merely pain and famished desires."

"It was not the Yokudan who spelt this one's end, but rather, their dead. It was the village of Naddur, a village of priests and attendants upon the great Necropoli of Sentinel – where Azani spent that last night. Something stirred in the darkness. To this hour Azani does not know what foulness stirred the revered dead from their tombs. Be that as it may, they fell upon the village in a shambling horde. Neither priest nor attendant would raise a hand in defense, for such would break their sacred vows."

"They fled, or tried to. Some escaped. Many, just waking and mazed by sleep, were torn asunder by the interlopers."

"While the priests and attendants revered the dead, This one did not. This one was not even Yokudan. No stricture prevented this one from striking at the horde."

"All that night this one smote the dead, striking and withdrawing like the raider this one had become. First with the bow until every arrow was spent; then striking from horseback, until weariness and wounds brought the gallant beast down; and finally afoot, pitting blade and speed of foot against the relentless endurance and swarming numbers of the foe."

"This one became such a nuisance that whatever intelligence drove the unliving decided I had to be brought down ere the harvest could continue. This one drew them away from the fleeing people of Naddur."

"At length, weariness and thirst led this one into error. Boxed into a ravine, this one clambered onto the last rock. At the uttermost end of the earth this one hewed and thrust, until dawn was full in the sky. Then dry, cracked claws pulled this one down. Champing jaws bit and clawed fingerbones tore… and this one knew no more."

I realized my mouth was gaping.

"If your eyes are as sharp and your tracking skills as honed as your storytelling, Azani, You are most welcome on this quest." I glanced around at the assembled Sovngarders. "Not that I've had many volunteers. In the meantime, do please have your helpers return the articles they've 'borrowed'. Let payment for your tale be freely given, not simply taken."

Azani raised an eyebrow.

"Come, Azani, let us have a word in private. I suspect you know much of what goes on in these halls, so I'd have your counsel before recruiting a mage. Or at least trying to."

Azani nodded and followed me to a corner table while the crowd rumbled. As we sat a servant proffered an ewer of wine and a pair of goblets, which I accepted.

I poured a deep purple vintage, probably from the far south, leaned forward and proffered Azani both goblets. The rogue considered, and selected one with long, slender fingers. Azani made a peculiar gesture over the goblet ere raising it to drink.

"And so, to the point." quoth I, lifting my own goblet. "Your counsel, Azani."

Leaning further forward still, I murmured, "...or should I say, 'Dahlia'?"


End file.
